The Garret

I live like a ghost in these walls.

I hear your voice below me and ache to call out to you but know I cannot. From the small hole in the ceiling I am fortunate enough to occasionally look down and catch a glimpse of you. I am so proud of the way you care for your half-sister. I am so happy to watch you brush your hair in the candlelight. I am so glad to hear your voice reverberate through the walls bringing me untold joy during countless lonely hours. I am sad when I see your father deny that you are his blood. When I hear you cry I long to come out from hiding and comfort you. But I cannot. I am unable to move or even sit. I feel my body waste away. When it is safe I come out and move about the house like ghost. Late at night. I take what a little food I can and silently crawl back to my place.

No ones knows I am here. I cannot risk showing myself. Not even to you. I could no longer expose myself to your father’s licentiousness, even though it resulted in you. I pray to the lord that he forgives my cowardice, my fear of the indignities of your father’s advances and the lash. And once he was done with me I was the focus of his wife’s abuse. Instead of pitying me for the abuse I suffered at her husband’s hand, and being property having no way to redress the wrongs against myself, I was the target of her vitriolic jealousy. So with no way to redress the injustices against me and nowhere to flee, here I cower, hiding in the walls and watching you grow, waiting for the right time.

Sometimes at night I glide to your room, my body too light from lack of food to creak the old floorboards, and watch you as you sleep. How I long to caress you but dare not wake you. It had been years since you’ve seen me, but I see you every night.

I never liked the way that that boy looked at you. He was vitiated by this “peculiar institution” like all the other white men. And so when I watched through my peephole, my only source of visual stimulation during the daylight hours and much of the night, I was weary when he did not stop his advances even thoughtyou made it clear they were unwelcome. It was the time that was dreading. You were fourteen years old and starting to become a woman. He pushed you against the bookshelf and told you to keep quiet. He tore at your clothes and I could not let you be a victim the way I was.

I remember your face, like you were witnessing the appearance of an apparition as I silently crawled from my hiding spot in the ceiling. You stopped struggling and stared at me and he took the opportunity to ravish you, mistaking it for you giving up, devouring your clear dark skin with wide wet kisses like you were nothing more than a meal, a dessert. With my emaciated body I managed to pick up a candle stick and walking behind him silently while raising the candlestick high above my head. Then I brought it down upon the base of his neck, the weight of it helping my weak arms crush his spine below his skull. He collapsed to the ground. I told you it was okay, it was me. Your mother. The fear in your eyes softened and you grabbed me and hugged me tight. I told you I would always watch over you. When the time came we would escape our bondage.

You helped me stuff the body into my crawlspace. You’re strong. Just like I was now. Now here I am stuffed in hole with the body of the boy who tried to take your purity. He hasn’t started to stink yet, and late at night I’ve been chopping up a small piece at a time and feeding it to the dog. Bloodhounds usually don’t like us negroes, but he doesn’t bark when he sees that every night I have a tasty treat for him. He devours it voraciously, not leaving a trace. Then I stand over you again, but now I can hug you.