Cole-Mine

It’s often too cold for me to sleep well. The blanket I was able to dig up, during one of the Colemans last episodes, is thin and quite stiff. It does not provide much heat or comfort. Their late night thrashing can be heard throughout the large Bronx brownstone, and makes it difficult to drift into any sound slumber. I’m not sure what they are doing, but the noises are frightening. It almost makes me happy to be locked in this tiny pantry.

Two is the number of months I’ve been trapped in these dismal surroundings. I etch a line in the cabinet where I keep my things to track the time. I track days, hours are too difficult without a clock, but my window tells me if it’s day or night. It also provides me with an escape, a ladder about 15 steps that hovers above the ground. Some days, when I know the Colemans are out or otherwise occupied, I climb down the ladder to the alley below and roam the streets. I am unsure what would happen if they ever caught me, but the streets are an escape and walking helps me think.

When I walk, I take in the smell of decaying homes and do my best to process the sounds emanating from them. The combination makes my stomach turn and my heart flutter nervously, but I keep my head down and focus on the mostly fresh air. It is so much more diluted than the stale air that hovers in my room.

I am always unsure of how long the Colemans will be occupied, so my trips are typically short. A few blocks at a time and then a brisk return to my domicile. Today, the Colemans are very strange, I don’t think I’ll be able to get out. Their eyes are the texture of glazed donuts, which reminds me that my stomach is empty, leaving my head light and my focus skewed. They babble loudly at each other, animatedly puffing their chests while I try to keep low.

Mr. Coleman used to be a professional wrestler. There were broken trophies and scattered plaques in most rooms of the house that indicated as much. Though he was so clearly out of shape, he hadn’t lost his agility, and his grip was terrifying. He’d grabbed my wrists, ankles, and hair loads of times, but only once had I felt those meat hooks around my throat. Deadly. That was the last time I got close enough for him to grab me.

Mrs. Coleman had given her body to surrogacy feeling it could be a lucrative business for her. It had paid well, but it had taken her body in return. At least the body she’d grown accustomed to. In the house, I’d found evidence of a pageantry circuit that ended a mere year before her first surrogacy. It seems Mrs. Coleman had aged out of the circuit, and having never completed any formal education, her options seemed limited.

Once she grew too old to carry any more children, she again found herself in a difficult position. So she turned to foster care, and this is how I ended up as one of 6 miserable souls residing in this travesty. I know that someday I will be old enough to fend for myself. To get a job, a home, a friend. For now, it’s a roof over my head, minimal bodily harm, and a tiny bit of window freedom.

I’m bleeding, again. Based on their visible delays, I let my guard down, only to be struck squarely in the nose by Mrs. Coleman. “D-d-don’t,” she started, dazing out as she mumbled the words. “Your blood, it’s getting on the floor!” she shouted. I quickly grabbed a towel from the kitchen and sped back to the living room, only to find Mrs. Coleman sprawled out on the carpet. I wiped up the blood quietly, as to not draw her attention back to me. Mr. Coleman was nowhere in sight. Scary. He was not afraid to hit a girl, not even if she hadn’t turned 13 quite yet. I was no match for them. My physicality was frail from years of malnourishment. I could hold my own with people closer to my age and general build, the Colemans were just larger than life.

Mr. Coleman burst back into the room, sprawling over Mrs. Coleman. She smacked him hard, walked into her bedroom and slammed the door. Anger shot through Mr. Colemans fist into the wall. He shouted, then grabbed me by the shirt collar, dragged me down the hall and dropped me inside the office. “Clean this, you have a new brother arriving later today,” he said, and left me to my task. With a grand slam of the front door he was gone.

This room was not so bad. I surveyed what was in front of me and got to work. I took in the textures and sniffed the scents. It was totally thrilling. This house is a great place to scout, the drawers are packed, the cabinets are full and the closets are overflowing. Snooping has been the cause of many of my scars from Mrs. Coleman, but they have been worth it.

The walls of the office are a wood paneling, the carpet’s a forest green shag that’s at least 50 years old, the books in the built-in shelves smell of dust and dinge, and the furniture is severely dated. A roll-top desk is perched in one corner, a glass cabinet holds a variety of trophies and crowns collected belonging to the Colemans, there is a large ornate grate on the floor that lies dormant, and the bookshelves are jam packed.

I get started on the desk, grabbing a rag and wood polish to use while I peruse it’s contents. I fish through the drawers as I polish. Receipts, lighters, coins, grocery lists, and unpaid bills swim out from some of the drawers, while others are completely barren. I find pen after pen, singular earrings, empty gum packets, a white powdery dust covering paperwork shoved into drawers, and a myriad of meaningless trinkets. Nothing of interest.

This continues for about an hour. The quiet is peaceful, but the dust is making me light headed and a film of it blankets my eyes. I don’t know what the other children are doing, but the hallway is a cave of shut doors and the silence that emanates is eerie. I take a break, grabbing a glass of water from the sink in the kitchen and preparing a wet compress for my eyes. The dust collects in clumps which I drag out with the compress. I can see much better now.

I hold extremely still, listening, but there is only nothingness. I take a deep breath, letting the air fill my lungs and then exhaling audibly into the stillness. I think of my parents. I dream about our home, the scent of the carpet, my mother. They could not handle me, they could barely handle themselves. I choke on my breath and snap back to the present. I should get back to work before I am violently interrupted. Better to not get caught on a break.

As I dust, I troll the books, looking for anything of interest. The titles are unimaginative, so my mind wanders. It’d been at least 10 years since I’d seen my parents, they must be better now. I picture my father sitting in his taupe recliner, smoking pipe in hand, eyes closed tightly, with some game show or sporting event blaring on the television. Mom in the kitchen, lighting her magic spoon, playing with her rubber string, and lazily joining me on the carpet to help me build whatever castle I’d dreamt up that day. My prince always slayed the firebreather that kept us trapped, and he always healed my parents. I could tell they hurt, I just never knew where. Sometimes it bubbled up from deep within and came raging out of their bodies. They never meant to hurt me. They loved me and I love them. I’ll find them again.

With all these memories flooding through me, I began to recall little games we’d play. The woman who ultimately took me from my parents permanently, was a frequent flier in my house growing up. I could always tell when she was going to visit because we’d play ‘bury the treasure’. I would take all our favorite things, mom’s spoon, dad’s pipe, my paki and blankie, and I would squirrel them away in my secret hiding spots; the heat grate on the floor in the hall, the air vent on the wall in the kitchen, the shifty floorboard in the living room, always a different location. I hated her visits but loved this game.

Oh yes! There was a grate in this room and I’d felt creaks from some floorboards. Excitement rose in my chest and my stomach fluttered. I tiptoed quickly to the kitchen to retrieve the rag I’d used as a compress. Returning to the room, I danced around the floor, listening for the creaks I’d heard earlier. I’d find one, drop to the floor and claw at its edges. All 3 I’d found were duds and I felt my chest deflate. The grate! I had one more shot at some real discovery.

The grate was heavier than expected, but I leveraged my body weight, and after some struggle I was able to create an opening big enough for me to reach inside. I shuffled my hand around, held my breath and silently prayed I wouldn’t feel something I didn’t want to. Something smooth made my breath catch. I ran my fingers over it trying to get an idea of what it was. It wasn’t moving, so I exhaled. I batted it around until it made its way under the opening I’d created, then I reached down and grabbed it.

It was a book. A pocket-sized, black leather-bound book. I opened its seemingly ancient pages, fingering the lines on the pages, imagining the phrases from my favorite books penned in script, and drifting into daydreams of those worlds. A slammed door snapped me back to the present, and I fumbled the book, anxiously pawing at my clothes for a hiding spot. It landed down the front of my pants right before the door to the study burst open. Mrs. Coleman was awake and clearly feeling the effects of her earlier debauchery. I loathed her. The fear and uncertainty I felt in the presence of her or Mr. Coleman was exhausting, and I just wanted to be left alone with my find and my thoughts. She entered, running her boney fingers over the furniture to check for dust, and flattening her face when she found none. She nodded concedingly at the neatly stacked and organized documents on the desk, and as a reward, gestured for my departure. I bolted.

When I got back to my room, I shut and locked my door, and then plopped on the floor by the window. I was hoping to steal the last bits of daylight to get a better look at the contents of my treasure. The nightly war between the Colemans was raging, but I found immense solace in the pages of my new journal. I thumbed through the pages, looking for any entries, but what I found was so much more. A thin folded piece of thick paper was stashed in the front of the book. Flattened so thoroughly as to not be detected quickly. I opened it gently and choked audibly. It was a Money Order for $20,000. I knew what the book was for, this is what the book was for. I began frantically writing. Regurgitating everything I knew about the Colemans’ schedule, or lack thereof. This money was going to change my life, I just needed to eliminate two pesky roadblocks. This plan would have to be airtight. Time to work.