Word count: 613

Safe Place

I have a safe place. Or perhaps, a better word for it would be a cage.

It's where I put her, the little girl; the one that I think I must have been, a long time ago, but can't remember now. It's strange that I don't even have her appearance in mind-- rather, she is modeled after my little sister, with those long pigtails and straight black bangs across the front. I cannot see her features clearly, they've long been blurred by the events of time, washing everything out.

Sometimes, I think, if I leave her in there for too long, the sunlight streaming in from the single window will finally wash her away, as she disappears piece by piece. Like dust.

The room is comfortable. It's warm, but not overwhelming or stuffy. It reminds me of summer, and sunshine, but it's lonely. There's never anyone in there. A soft green couch covered with velvet is on one side, and that's where she plays, the little girl that is me, but is not me. Because I don't even know her. I'm certain we're not related.

The first day, she jumped. Like any child that has suddenly been given a wide area of space to call his or her own, she embraced the room immediately, exploring every nook and cranny and bounding on the comfortable couch. She peeked into the walk in closet, and tugged at the curtains. She looked up at the ceiling, and rolled around in the soft carpet. I watched her briefly, pleased that she was enjoying herself, then shut the door and walked away.

I think she watched me go. But I can't be sure. I closed the door without looking inside, afraid of what I would see there. If I saw her face looking at me, I wouldn't know how to respond. Perhaps she'd run up to me and ask, "Where are you going? When are you going to come back?" and would I have to lie to her, then? No. Better I don't see her at all, better that she doesn't question it, better that she remains innocent.

I haven't opened the door since. Yet somehow I know that she's no longer the energetic girl I knew when I first showed her the room; she's probably lying down now, lethargic, trapped, sad. Every once in a while, she might have a random burst of anger, but that, too, quickly passes away. Is she afraid? I don't know. I don't think so, because if she is me, and I am not often afraid, then I doubt she would experience fear. She's probably a little lost, a little confused; maybe she's wondering why I haven't come back yet, why I'm not here to take her back, and carry her along with me. Maybe she wants to know when she'll see the real world again-- she's probably hoping to see the outside that she gets a glimpse of through her window, when she peeks through the blinds, standing on tiptoe. I know that the room never changes: it is always dim, slightly muted. Always as messy as usual, and forever devoid of sound. Socks and clothes forever strewn across the ground. Silent, like a soft summer afternoon, while lying in a bed of wildflowers, and watching the butterflies skim across your nose.

It's been days. No, perhaps years. A week. I don't know. All I know is that in my mind, I don’t' see her dancing around anymore, and I don't even hear her phantom singing. She lies limp on the couch all day, hungry, thin, exhausted.

I'm killing her. The little girl is going to die. She's going to die.