The Girl in the Basement: Reimagined

Drops of water hit the pages of my book. Choosing to ignore them, I continued rereading the same paragraph I had been working on for the last hour. I found myself brushing my long golden hair back behind my shoulders. The bare lightbulb swung slightly, shifting shadows in the basement.

I did not move from my seat on the mattress when I heard the door creak open. If I moved or spoke, I knew Father would be angry. I quietly counted the steady steps as he descended. One, two, three… thirteen. A tray was placed at my feet. A ham sandwich, a mushy vegetable, a banana, and a glass of milk. He left quickly, and I counted his steps before touching my lunch.

My feet grew tired from standing tip-toed at the window for so long, my fingers gripping the dusty windowsill. I could never see much other than grass and blue sky. If I stood just right, with the wind blowing perfectly, I might catch a glimpse of the flowers against the outside of the house. A spider might dash over my fingers, but I stayed still, captivated.

Father’s heavy steps kicked up dust, coating me in a fine layer. I wore the large-brimmed hat I’d found to shield my eyes, imagining myself as the woman in a photo I once discovered—sunny days, lemonade in hand, surrounded by people. Her blonde hair and bewitching smile lingered in my mind as I sorted through Father’s things.

The door swung open, and Father brought me water, soap, and a sponge. I was allowed to wash about once a week. The water was rarely warm, but I embraced the opportunity to wash my long, tangled hair. I could spend an entire day trying to brush it thoroughly, but I usually just settled for a quick run through of the fingers. Afterwards I would spend an hour trying to braid it, so it would stay out of my way.

When I was old enough to understand I couldn’t leave, I started looking for a way to cut my hair. I asked Father for help once. Without a word, he raised his hand, and before I could react, the cold floor slammed into my face. I stayed still, counting thirteen stomps before the door slammed shut. I touched my face—no blood. Ten minutes later, he tossed down an ice pack.

A rustling near my head woke me. I held my breath, hoping for a mouse, not a rat. Tears pricked my eyes as I felt tugging at my hair. Rodents were common in the basement, but I’d never gotten used to them. After complaining once, Father set traps, but one caught my toe instead. He removed them, leaving me with pests and a limp. I tried to sleep, knowing I couldn’t do anything until morning, hoping the rodent would be gone and not nestled in my hair.

Several times a week, the newspaper arrived, and I always looked forward to it. I’d inhale the scent of ink and paper before unrolling the rubber band, adding it to my growing collection of hundreds. I’d start at the front, reading the headlines, then carefully move through every section. No part of the paper went unread. I lingered over the classifieds, studied the advertisements as if each one held a secret. But it was the obituaries I loved most. I read them as if meeting strangers, imagining their lives, their stories unfolding in the space between the lines.

I had not seen Father in two days. I curled into a ball on my thin mattress and listened to my stomach growl. I tried to focus on anything besides my pains: the most recent book I had acquired, last week’s newspapers, or the beautiful woman of the photos.

Father woke me up when he finally returned; his tired face appeared worried. I had lost count of the days, sleeping on and off. He sat down with me on my mattress, making sure I ate. He left me with a glass of water and a quick apology, but no explanation. I watched him ascend the stairs slowly, gripping the handrail as he went.

I stood staring at the window. There was a man in the yard. Not Father. I watched him push a lawn mower back and forth on the yard. Usually Father did the mowing. The man disappeared from sight and I inched up as close as I could to the window. The roar of the mower got continually louder until he was right in front of my face. Surprised, I fell off the chair and landed hard on my wrist.

I went upstairs for the first time. Father told me not to speak. He was having a doctor come to look at my arm, but I had to look presentable first. We walked through a hallway past many rooms and stopped in a small bathroom. Father turned on the shower and instructed me to bathe. He pointed out a neat stack of clean clothes on the counter. He exited, and I heard the door lock from the outside. Unable to use my left arm, I carefully undressed and got into the shower. The water was warm, and I found myself fascinated by the water pressure and fragrant soaps.

With my back to Father, I felt the soft tug of him combing through my hair. I wondered if he had ever done it before, but I couldn't remember. Still, the feeling felt familiar and soothed me. The upstairs was clean and simple, bare furnishings, no decorations. His coat lay on the floor, the television muted television flickered, and a sweating glass of caramel-colored liquid sat next to him. As he braided my hair tightly, I smiled, knowing this braid would hold far better than the ones I usually managed.

When the doorbell rang, Father left me alone briefly on the living room couch. From the other room, I heard him tell the man that I was mute. I did as Father asked and spoke no words. The doctor told Father that my wrist was sprained and gave me a brace. Four to six weeks to heal. The doctor told Father that he wanted to see me again in four weeks, and as soon as he was gone, I was quickly swept back into the basement.

Every day I went through another box of Father’s belongings. Usually I found books, old pictures. One day I found a small mirror. It was cloudy and cracked down the middle, but it was the first time I remembered seeing a reflection of myself. I stared at my dirty face and found that I vaguely resembled the woman that constantly appeared in Father's pictures. Alarmed, I dropped the mirror and grabbed the last photo album I had gone through. The woman was on the first page, smiling down at a crying baby in her arms. I quickly tore the photo out and turned it over. Arianna and Rapunzel (3 months). I placed the photo next to my pillow and turned my attention back on the box.

Father forgot to turn on the light one morning, so I did not wake up until he brought me my breakfast. As he set a bowl of cereal next to me, he noticed the picture I had placed next to my pillow. He grabbed it angrily and tore it up. Helpless, I just watched the pieces fall. I refused to look at him while he climbed the stairs. As he stomped around, dust rained.

It was the middle of the night, but I was still awake. I had pulled the chair over to the window and was staring out at the stars. In that moment I just wanted to be outside, to see the sky just a little better. The moon, the stars. Feel the midnight breeze in my hair. The lightbulb turned on, and I frantically scrambled down. Father descended the stairs slowly, carrying a small box. He sat it down beside me and muttered an apology for waking me up. His eyes flickered to the chair under the window but said nothing as he turned to leave. I counted his slow thirteen steps and laid down as the light turned back off.

In the morning, when the lightbulb came back to life, I opened my new box. At the very top was a beautifully pressed golden hibiscus flower. I stared at it for a moment, reveling in the beauty. I set it aside when I saw a newspaper clipping of an obituary. Arianna Sorin, 26, died April 14, 1993 near her home in Bristol, Virginia. Arianna is survived by her husband Frederic Sorin and their daughter Rapunzel Sorin. I stared at the photo. My mother stared back at me.

Father woke me one morning much earlier than usual. He led me upstairs and once again left me in the bathroom. I embraced the new clothes and the opportunity to properly bathe. When I exited the bathroom, a lone photograph in the hallway caught my eye. I stopped just for a moment because I noticed a young Father, standing next to mother, and holding a toddler me. Father, noticing my gaze, grabbed me by the arm and dragged me to the living room to await our guest. The doctor only stayed for a few minutes. He removed my brace, checked over my wrist, and declared me healed. Father paid him, and I was again shoved back into the basement.

One winter it snowed for several days in a row. I could no longer see out of my little window. My blanket did little against the cold radiating off of the frigid concrete. I heard Father before I could see him, coughing from the top of the stairs all the way to the bottom. He brought me a mug full of hot chocolate and warm fuzzy socks. He left as quickly as he came without a single word.

The next time I saw the outdoor man he was shoveling snow. He brushed the snow away from the window, and, without thinking, I had pulled my chair up to the window and was staring out at him. He bent down to pick something up, and we made eye contact. I stood transfixed. He smiled at me, and I smiled back.

The light bulb had burnt out. I had not seen Father in several hours, but I was tired of sitting in the dark. It was still daytime, but there was not enough light coming in to do anything. I was scared to get Father’s attention. I walked slowly up the stairs and knocked lightly. I heard the angry footsteps and stared down at my feet until Father swung open the basement door.

When the outdoor man returned for the third time, he came straight to the window. He pointed to me and then pointed up. I believe he wanted me to go outside. I shook my head. He looked disappointed for a moment but quickly stood up. I could hear muffled shouting. The man walked off, and I could see Father walking across the lawn. The man gestured towards me. I jumped down from the chair, shaking.

The basement door flung open. He was just as angry as I expected. I flinched with each loud step he took down the wooden stairs. Instead of thirteen stomps, I counted seven. Saying nothing and breathing heavily, he walked purposefully over to the chair. With my eyes on the ground, I heard him pick it up and hit it repeatedly against the wall. One tear slid to the edge of my nose and fell to the floor.

I stayed in a ball on my mattress for a long time. My eyes were continuously glued to the broken pieces of wood on the floor. The lightbulb turned off for the night and back on in the morning. Father left me alone and simply tossed water bottles down the stairs occasionally. I never saw the outdoor man again.

The mirror in my hand shook. I looked at my reflection for possibly the last time and smashed the mirror against the wall. I could hear Father upstairs, moving as quickly as he could. I picked up the biggest shard of glass and grabbed a large chunk of my loose hair. Without giving it a second thought, I cut right through it at shoulders length. The hair slid to the floor at my feet, just as Father flung open the basement door. He called out to me, but I did not respond. Instead, I continued chopping.

Father reached the bottom of the stairs and stared at me in horror. He slowly walked over to me, eyes fixed on the pile of golden hair at my feet. I closed my eyes and braced myself against the inevitable brutality I was about to endure, but neither came. When it became apparent that I was not about to be punished, I opened my eyes cautiously. Father sat before me, a broken man, his fists full of my hair. Tears rolled down his tired face.

The open basement door caught my eye. For the first time, I climbed the stairs without fear. One. Two. Three… Thirteen. At the top, I paused, listening. Father hadn’t moved from his spot amidst the mountain of hair. I had expected him to follow. I walked through the house, stopping just before the front door. My hand trembled as I reached for the knob. With a deep breath, I threw it open before I could second-guess myself. Cold air hit me, and I stood shivering in the doorway. Beyond the threshold, there were no signs of life—no cars, no houses. Only trees, sky, and fields.

I hesitated in the doorway. I'd waited a long time for this moment, yet the sound of the wind carried a question I wasn't ready to answer. My bare feet were numb, and my clothes did little against the winter wind. I stared at the clouded over sky and the empty trees. This life was all I knew. Where else would I go? Taking a couple steps back into the house, I shut the door.

Father appeared in the hallway, carrying a fistful of my hair in one hand and a photo of my mother in the other. Her golden hair flowed down to her waist. I could still see the tear tracks on his face. I stood still, his shadow stretching long before him, as the weight of my hair hung between us.