We’ve been in here for too long, though it has barely been two full days. I know how to get comfortable by now on the same dirty cold tile that has been our beds for the past thirty-somethin’ hours. Honestly, I’m not really sure how long it’s really been since we came here, or if it’s daylight or not. There aren’t any windows in here. The only light we get are the flickering overhead light that – no matter what – hums an annoying tune.

There is a five slotted section cut out in the ceiling. When my curiosity took over, she told me it’s called an “air vent”. She said that it’s the culprit behind me getting cold all the time. She lets me snuggle up with her when that happens.

She would run her hand through my messy brown hair, identical to hers, as her other hand rubs up and down my arms, attempting to warm me. She doesn’t call me a cry baby then.

We only have one outfit. We didn’t have time to hurry and pack before we were urged to leave.

We wash our clothes in the sink. We try not to leave our clothes off for too long or the cold air will cut at our skin like a knife. We take turns washing. First we drench the fabric in the dirty sink that sputters out what looks like watered down tea and apparently smells like the bad word she uses to describe it. We scrub the heavy clothes against our hands and watch as more barely identifiable dirt fills the bowl of the sink. There’s no soap. Only five minutes to run our garments under the inaudible hand dryer. It blows at our clothes softly with cold air; not really doing much.

Only five minutes; she keeps reminding me. Repeatedly. Like I don’t already know this.

I know the rules. Her rules.

We have to be careful, she told me when we first got in here. She wrote the rules on the wall of the bathroom with a permanent marker that was left in here before. The rules we learned to follow from before, when we were too naïve to know better.
 

1. Only flush the toilets when we can hear loud commotion going on outside in the lobby (loud enough that it fills the whole room).
2. Don’t move, make a sound, or even breathe heavy when you hear footsteps near. Or when someone on the other side asks something like, “Who’s in here?” don’t answer.
3. Only use 4 squares of the roll of tissue left. 2 for pee and 2 for s***.
4. NEVER LEAVE THE BATHROOM SAMMY!

She always says bad words, though I know what this one means now, poop.

I hate rule four. She always treats me like a child, though for good reason that I would never admit out loud.

No one knows we’re here. At least no one important. We have to keep it this way. I don’t exactly know why, though I know what happens when someone finds out.

We have a bag with us; her old gym bag. There’s nothing but snacks in it, though I’m not complaining. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for us.

She goes shopping.

It’s a game that we play to enlighten the situation when she has to go out and shoplift for more food. She plays mom and I play the daughter (who turns out to be old enough to be left alone). The bathroom is our house, our home. It practically is, even without playing this little game. Creeping out of the house door, she looks both ways. We pretend that it’s passing cars that she is watching out for. Not people.

Before she closes the door behind her, she would turn to me and blow kisses and tell me that she loves me. Times like these, I’m no longer sure if she is acting or not. If the game is an excuse for her to show me some affection.

At the clicking sound of the door closing, I’m on my feel and locking the door. I wait for her to come back. I wash my clothes waiting. I want to look nice when she comes back. I comb out my hair with my fingers, while straining to see myself in the cloudy mirror above the sink.

I clean our house while I wait, with my hands that I wet. Not much comes off that is then rinsed off in the sink.

A combination of knocks raps on the door, a certain rhythm memorized and performed well, signaling her return. Letting me know that it’s safe, open the door.

She always comes back.

Food full in her bag, I never acknowledged the fear in her tired eyes. Or the way her smile strained to appear happy and light as I dug through the bag with resurfaced hunger. She takes care of me, like a real mom. Even reads to me, my favorite book. She soothes my worst fears and endless worries.
We don’t have the book with us sadly; we didn’t have time to grab it. She memorized it though from the times dad read it to her when she was my age.

It is sometime after she went shopping now, and she is reading to me. The one she memorized. She makes up for not having the book and the pictures by making the appropriate hand gestures and sounds needed to bring the book alive.

Memories flow like a slow motion movie, playing before my eyes, as I sit on this ice-like floor and listen to the story. I see faces, faces of those I once loved. Faces I don’t want to remember, or the painful incident that happened would come back to me. Reminding me of all that we lost. That we — 

She makes the noises of a monkey with the addition of a presentation on how a monkey moves in the wild. I laugh. I cannot confide in her or she will grow upset right along with me. I have to be strong, like her.

We do not hear the footsteps coming close, we do not know of the existence of anyone’s presence. Not until we heard the sound of the door handle twisting in an attempt to open. It is as if someone pushed the pause button at the rising action of the movie; when he or she know something bad is going to happen, but are too afraid to keep watching. Our bodies freeze. The fake laughter and the exaggerated noises of animals stops.

I know you are in here.

The voice of a man seeps through the barrier of the door and floats into the small space around us. Taunting us.

Though we have not been here that long, people have been trying to get in and use the bathroom. We know what to do in these situations. However, this time, it feels different. As if, he does not want to use the nasty toilet in here. He is not like everyone else; he does not ask: Someone in here?

He already knows. So what does he want?

We stay quiet, but the twisting of the handle intimidates us. Our hearts beat faster. Perspiration appears on our faces and neck.

Fear.

I reach out my shaky hand in the dimly lit chamber holding our fears. I search for her hand, though my eyes are stuck looking at the door. Skin rubs against my eager fingers. Her hands grabs mine, holding it with an unbelievable calm.

This is maintenance.

Snatching my eyes away from their trapped state, I look to her, knowing there would be reassurance in her eyes. However, her eyes do not meet mine for a few seconds. Though when they do, I see something she never revealed to me through her eyes. Her fear. Her worries.

The fiddling of the knob finally cease. Although we know not to let go of our held breath, not until we know he is gone. The beating of my heart blocks out any noise that may come from the other side of that door; I can’t hear if he walks away or not. So I move onto the next step and count to ten.

Half way to ten, a heavy sound breaks through the blockage that my heart created. The jingle of metal clanking against metal starts behind the door, stopping all counting.

She hears it too.

Her hands drops mine, leaving behind that false calm. Her hand thrusts itself towards my arm, clasping it in a tight grip. She points to the stall near us. Go inside it. I understand. I nod my head. She unwraps her sweaty palm from my – now – red skin. She raises her hand towards her face. She presses her raised index finger against her tightly sealed lips. They are white from the pressure. And be quiet.

I follow her instructions. I go to the stall on light feet. Before closing the door behind me, I look back towards her. I watch as a single tear escapes her eye. A couple of my own starts to fall. I don’t want to leave her, to hide away. But I know that if I disobey she will forever be mad at me. I go inside, closing the door behind me and lock it slowly, making sure to time it with the jingle of the keys.

I sit on the seat of the open toilet while pulling my feet up with me.

The clicking of the door echoing around me and the shuffling of heavy feet against tile hitting my ears, lets me know that he is inside.

I close my eyes and cover my ears with shaky but firm hands. But it will not block out what I know he will do to her. What men who finds us, always do to her.