Basement

• Shannon Towell, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2011

I see damp mould, growing on the walls; there is a cold chill to the air, the kind of air that early July mornings bring. I try to move my shivery hands, but the rope is too strong. “Matilda,” an icy voice called. I don’t answer, the door handle starts to turn.
I hold my breath, silence thick in the air. The door opens; those familiar green eyes stare down at me, like a trophy, a plaything. Tears start flowing down my face, knowing, anticipating what comes next.
He removes the tape from my mouth, before replacing it with his lips. I think about how my father could do this to me, no guilt or remorse. I think about all those times he tucked me in, read my favourite bedtime stories over and over, as I snuggled up to my toys underneath my bright purple covers, drifting to dreams filled with unicorns and magic. I now crave those times more than anything.
He unbinds my hands; I run and fling myself at the door. Screaming, even though I know no one could hear me. He drags me back into the chair; he starts removing my ratted, torn clothes. I let a silent tear roll down my cheek, knowing my torture would never end.