I’m living in this man’s basement, and I have been for over four years now. I have to say, it’s not that terrible once you get used to the grimy mold everywhere? and only being able to eat some else’s spit covered leftovers every other day (at least I think it’s every other day). The sun goes down twice and I get fed, but I don’t really know anymore, time has lost it’s meaning to me. Actually, I used to look forward to escaping this hell-hole one day, but that was four lengthy years ago. Well, all I really know is that I’ve had exactly four birthdays since he caught and captured me, every year on my birthday he lets me eat a larger meal; I mean, sure it’s usually an un-eaten 10-piece chicken nugget meal with half a cupcake, but it’s better than saliva-covered, partly chewed cartilage off of the night before’s BBQ wing leftovers. I never even dreamed this is what I’d be doing when I was 17: living in the basement belonging to one of my dad’s so-called “coworkers”.
Ever since he trapped me I’ve been sleeping on some cheap-ass twin size mattress, and at first it wasn’t too terrible, just a generic twin mattress with I-don’t-know-how-many-springs, but now it’s covered in dried up crusty vomit and too many blood and piss stains to count. Sometimes I think that; I’d rather sleep on the moldy ground than on my bed but I usually decide it’s better to not do that, there’s too much broken glass and garbage on the ground. Every time I wake up or get too close to it, I have to suppress the urge to vomit, because the smell of the terrifyingly large pile of decomposing meals coming from the corner opposite my bed can be way too strong. Just think, a couple more years and I’ll be sleeping on that; I wouldn’t be able to shower it off either, I don’t have a shower. Well, I have a hose that the man installed after I complained about it for about a month, or what felt like a month.
My hose-showers aren’t fun or warm like the showers I used to take, it’s literally a freezing cold hose with freezing cold hose water, so I try my hardest not to shower every meal or so, it’s just too unpleasant, sometimes when my clothes get too dirty I’ll wash them with the water, but I try not to because it takes forever to dry them, especially when there isn’t anywhere to hang them up. That reminds me, the guy keeping me here never gave me a change of clothes, never ever. My black jeans are so worn and thin that they’re more grey than anything at this point, and while, yes, they are much baggier on me now than they were four years ago, they’re so short I could call them capris. I’m really thankful I was a chubbier kid before, that XL kid’s shirt fits pretty good now, it’s too baggy for a “proper fitting shirt” but I don’t mind it, it’s just the right kind of baggy for me. (I just mind that it’s so filthy? I can’t even remember what color it was: red? Chartreuse? I couldn’t tell you, honestly.)
Oh! I realize you’re probably wondering, “How have you stayed sane down here all these years?” Well, my answer is: I don’t know for sure if I’m really sane or not, but I can tell you that my biggest comforts down here (they just keep me from going bat-s*** crazy) are my journals and the toilet. The toilet may smell awful 24/7 and may have countless blood and s*** stains in places you wouldn’t even think could get stained, but it works and flushes, so that’s good enough for me. After what felt like a year of begging, the guy agreed to buy me plain old college ruled spiral notebooks as needed and a couple mechanical pencils along with replacement lead. I figured if he’s insane enough to give me newspaper clippings of my own story of going missing that he should be okay with buying me the occasional notebook. Besides, it’s not like a journal is too much to ask for, I mean, I shower with a hose for Christ’s sake. Now there isn’t any good drama going around about the high schoolers that I’d know about, but I don’t care anyway anymore, I usually write my own stories, like all the different possibilities I could have had if I weren’t stuck here, or my latest sci-fi mystery romance novel about a slug and a bee on hoverboards.
I wish that I could go back in time and just change things around. I wish that my father never died (I didn’t get to see him much, he moved a town over when I was four, but it still sucked). I wish that my mother never had me go to the after cleanup of the funeral. I low-key wish that I could go back and just changed the way I was brought up: why did dad leave mom? why didn’t i get to see dad more? and why did mom teach me to be so nice? Why did I help the man carry flowers that were almost too heavy for me to lift to his truck? Why did he take me? Why hasn’t he done anything to me besides trapping me here since that day? Why did I not think twice before hopping in the back of his truck to reach that pot into the back? Why hadn't I just jumped out of the truck bed as soon as I realized I was in deep s***? God, I can even remember it like it was yesterday, like it happened hours ago; things are just too vivid for me even now, maybe I have trauma, or maybe I just can’t let things go.

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        “Hey Jessie, Gary wants us to help clean and organize his Funeral home, are you feeling up to it?” My Mom came around the bedroom door to find me slumped over a notebook, my notebook. Every day since I got the black moleskine notebook I made sure to write at least a sentence in it, even if it was just “I’m tired.” or “I had Trix cereal for dinner.”
        “Do I have to?” I groaned closing the unfinished notebook entry, losing my entry of my feelings on dad’s recent death in the pages.
        “I suppose not,” she started walking in,still staying near to the door, “but it would be kind to help out, there’s a lot of things that need to be done so the home can be ready for the next funeral.”
        “Fine I’ll go help, is there anyone else going to help?”
        “Your grandma, a few of your uncles, and a couple family friends are already there sorting through things.” I didn’t respond, and instead got up to grab my black jacket (instead of my usual grey hoodie) and sort-of-fancy black shoes. My mom left the room to get her wallet and keys. I chased after her as soon as I got the laces on my left shoe tied into a perfect set of bunny ears? these weren’t my favorite pair of shoes to wear, they were sorta big and clompy on my feet. My favorite pair of shoes were a pair of black and white Nike’s my mom got me for my 12th birthday. The heels were so scuffed and worn that every time I walked there was a risk of getting my foot wet or punctured? eighth grade is ruthless on your shoes when you walk to school (not that school is far, it’s just down the road, but the littered and polluted cracked sidewalks in Illinois are totally unforgiving).
I stumbled abruptly when I got just outside the door, she had just turned the keys in the ignition and started sobbing, the crystal teardrops were more like recreations of the 2011 Japan tsunami, ripping right through her caked on foundation and almost forcing her mascara to give up its waterproof-ness. I fidgeted my way to the passenger seat and tried patting her on the back, the black cashmere sweater slipping over her shoulder to her elbow. I remember this sweater, it’s the one great-grandma gave to her for her 30th birthday.
My mom pulled back from the steering wheel, “I’m fine, I’m okay, I’m just fine, fine, fine,” she wiped tears away with the back of her freckled hand and shakily pushed the gear shift into reverse, I knew she wasn’t okay but decided it would be best to not say anything. The 12-minute car ride felt as long as the cold war, not that I know how long the cold war was, I was never that good in social studies. There wasn’t too much to look at in her 2003 Acura, as It was fairly clean with a few wrappers and coffee mugs on the floor, each with cheesy sayings like “Mondays aren’t my thing” and “This is my 58th cup already”. Though, there is a dead spider in the upper-right corner of the windshield that’s been there for as long as I can remember, I wonder why she never got rid of it. Maybe the spider and her were friends and that’s why she never got rid of it, but all I know is that as soon as I have my license and get to own and drive her car as my own, that’s the first thing I’m going to do, get rid of that shriveled up spider. I studied the awkward bends in the few limbs that the spider had left, and before I knew it, we arrived at Gary’s funeral home, I had to swallow the knot in my throat to look strong for my mom, who was already tearing up.
“I’m gonna let you have a minute to yourself and go find Gary, ‘kay mom?” She didn’t even look up, but she nodded, and that was good enough for me, I headed into the oddly fancy building. It looked more like an expensive hotel than a funeral home with all the “modern art” on the walls.
“Ah, Jessie thank goodness you’re here, could you help me with these flowers?” A tall rusty blond guy stopped me seconds before I could get to Gary, he looked like a cleaner cut version of my dad in a way; my dad had a beard and this guy was as hairless as a three-week old baby, though he still looked like he was 30-something years old (then again, what do I know, I haven’t really seen my dad in years, he left when I was little). I must’ve looked at him funny because he was quick to add, “I was one of your dad’s co-workers and your mom’s friend way back before you were born, that is, if you didn’t know who I was.”
“Oh, okay, I think I’ve heard of you once or twice before,” that was a total lie, but I didn’t want to risk hurting his feelings by not knowing him, “Sure, so what flowers do you need help with?” I queried, gesturing to what seemed like an infinite number of flowers and plants in pots.
“All of them, but I need to put the heaviest ones in the truck first for safety reasons. Do you think you could help me with that one?” He gestured to the largest pot of peonies I’d ever seen with an oddly polished looking hand, almost as if he got a manicure to go to my dad’s funeral. I gave a small nod and grasped the potted plant by the conveniently placed handle-looking decorations around the rim. I started to lift up the pot and thought this would be harder than I thought, but I couldn’t be rude and say no, I wasn’t raised that way.
“So which truck is yours?” I hoped he would say it’s the big blue Ford right by the exit, that would make things so much easier- and me so much not-tired.
“The dark silver one in the back, sorry I parked so far, when I got here there wasn’t much room to park by the doors.” I didn’t say anything, just focused on carrying this as-big-as-me plant to his stupid far-away-parked truck. On the seemingly forever lasting walk there I saw my mom being held by another woman I quickly recognized to be Janice, a family friend and my aunt who isn’t biologically my aunt, I felt bad that my mom was hurting so much, and felt bad that I didn’t seem to be hurting that much, I think I’m still numb, I thought.
“Great that you so much, would you mind getting up there for me, I recently injured my knee, so I couldn’t get up there too easily.” His words broke my train of thought and I realized we were at the back of his truck. Wait, Injured knee? That’s funny- he wasn’t walking weird or seemingly in pain or anything.
“Sure no problem,” I ignored the off thought and hopped into the back of his truck, but as soon as I got up and turned to face him so he could lift up the flowers to me- he wasn’t there. A wet funny smelling rag was held over my face. Suddenly, the world around me danced into darkness and my head numbly hurt.

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        I hear the man’s usual heavy steps come across the ceiling, well, my ceiling, approach the door, thank god food is here. He opens the door and comes inside the basement, he usually never steps foot in here, the only time I remember him coming in was when he installed the nightmare inducing hose-shower. I kept looking at him quizzically until he gave in.
        “You need to come with me right now, but you can’t be dressed like that,” he says in a quick hushed tone, throwing a plain grey t-shirt and jeans at me, “Put that on, and quick.” Thank god, I couldn’t believe I was finally getting a change of clothes! He turns around and I immediately began changing into the oh-so-much-softer feeling t-shirt (probably cotton or something) that fit a little big, but was perfect, Pulling the jeans up around my waist they were also baggy, but not that bad, at least they fit the length of jeans well. Finishing zipping up the jean’s fly, I hear sirens in the distance and notice the guy started tapping his foot in his fancy ass looking shoes that he shouldn’t be wearing on this floor.
        “Aren’t you done yet? How long does it take to change?” Boy something got into him or something, maybe someone found out where I was and called the cops on him, maybe today is the day I’m being rescued!
        “I’m done now!” I sing. He immediately turns around and blindfolds me, I couldn’t put up much of a fight because he’d made me so weak over the years, so I just let him do it. Seconds later I was being pushed up the stairs, nearly tripping on every step. The sirens grew louder and he kept pushing me through a cinnamon smelling hallway, I hadn’t smelled that in years, it was nice? reminded me of dad. I didn’t realize that he shoved me and himself into a closet together. I could tell it was dark through the holes between the threads of the blindfold, so taking advantage of that I took off the blindfold. Not even a second later he turns on the light, not realizing I took off the blindfold. Just then, I got to see him for the first time in years, like, really see him and his face. I instantly recognize the greying facial scruff, the rusty blond mop of hair, the chipped tooth with coordinating scar on his lower lip, and the uneven dark circles under his eyes. As the sirens grew even louder, I knew exactly who this man is.
        “Dad?”