The Atticus

It was a Sunday morning and she sat in the attic, listening the the growing sound of the rain. Rain made her feel less lonely and she imagined that he was somewhere sitting in a room just like this listening to this same act of God. She wondered if they, too, had daydreams about strangers daydreaming in weather halfway across the globe.

Daydreams upon daydreams was the key to her survival. She had been locked in that room for the better part of her adolescence. After her parents died in a horrific car crash, they took her away from him. She still didn't know where he was. Her only semblance of time was the sunrise and sunset--and the plate of food put under her door each day at precisely 1:07PM. Most days, while eating the meal, she wondered why they bothered. After all, they took away the only person she had left and the only reason to provide her with sustenance seemed to be the quelling of a guilty conscience.

She thought, they were all the same. And they never had a 'hug o war,' that ended with carpet burn. She felt sorry for them---the selfish ones. And at night, she slept easy, rubbing the scars on her elbows---dreaming of him and their secret---and how he was probably laughing just the same.

One day, she would have another bed. She was certain of it.