We Belong in the Basement

 

He’d murdered her niece. She could remember that with such clarity it winded her. Like a blow to the back, every time she thought about it — small hands that had gripped onto everything until one day the muscle lost its strength. He had taken that strength from her, and in doing so stole the strength of the family, also. Her sister, the child’s mother, had never really been a whole person since. Unable to look anyone in the eye, she’d retreated so far inwards it’s like her body was swallowing itself, like watching a black hole form right in front of you. Her spine was now bent, crooked, and her skin was sallow. Of course, that was also the malnourishment. Some weeks ago she’d decided eating wasn’t worth it anymore.

    Isla’s childhood was filled with bright colours and loud sounds; large gatherings of people who all looked similar to one another, who all spoke at the same time and yet everyone knew what each other was saying all of the time, no-one ever went unheard. Since her niece’s death, there’d been darkness, quiet, and damp. Damp overhead in the basement they’d been trapped in for god knows how many years, and damp that was growing in the spaces between them. Thanks to their captor, Isla and her family had lost their kaleidoscopic world and were living in unsaturated colours now.

    There had been several escape plans, many attempts that were followed through only to reach a dead end, and the police stopped believing their story a long time ago. No-one even noticed an entire family had vanished in front of their eyes, and the law seemed happy to accept that these vagrants were merely trying to escape the care of a suitable custodian, charged with feeding and sheltering the poor souls who’d quite clearly gone mad with grief. Phone call after phone call either went unanswered, or they were met with disdain, or even encouragement to return back from whence they came. Isla had learned a long time ago they were on their own, even when they were all together.

    Throughout the years the basement had changed, but only the jailor could tell them how this happened. There would be nights when they’d all fall asleep together, a heavy, weighty sleep that crashed through the ceiling and hit them all with equal force. Then, when they’d wake in the morning, there’d be something different about the basement. The shape of the stairs would change, or a patch of mould would disappear. Sometimes the basement had grey walls, sometimes red brick. Once or twice, the basement door seemed to be unlocked, but they could only tell by the increased shaft of light making its way around the edge — none of them ever tried to open it anymore so they could never know for sure.

    When they first found themselves trapped together, the jailor used to visit them every day. He’d bring them food, or newspapers, or new chains — really anything he could think of that would antagonise them enough he could get his fix. Now, it seemed like even he’d forgotten about them. They never made any sound, so maybe he had. He no longer brought them nourishing meals, instead throwing down the occasional box of stale cereal, or an old loaf of bread, both of which could be uniformly divided amongst them now that Isla’s mother had passed. When she was alive, the odd number of people often made it difficult to divvy up the goods, but when she died they all rejoiced alongside their mourning, because it meant they all got slightly greater portions of food.

    Isla constantly thought about what it would be like to just walk out of the door. The almost convincing proof of an unlocked door was nearly enough to tempt her, but there was always a reason to hold back. They weren’t looking out for each other, and nor were they looking out for themselves. It struck Isla that at this point, maybe they had become their own captors. Each one of them had fortified themselves, super-glued their backsides to the ground with unwarranted intensity. Is it possible this had been the jailor’s plan all along? Now it really made sense why the police always sent them back — they belonged in that basement, they didn’t deserve to leave. If their will to fight was so easily eroded maybe they really were in need of care.

    After so many years of living below-ground, and with a captor who was so obviously bored of this game, it was inevitable that rumour would abound the village. Isla and her family were, of course, unaware of this, but their jailor was getting tired of the questions.

“How are they all doing?”

“Do you need any help looking after them?”

“Is it true they’ve lost their minds?”

He was sick of the fame, although couldn’t deny the thrill it gave him to know he’d gotten away with it, and just how easy it had been too! His playthings below ground were becoming burdensome, and he’d spent time concocting a plan to get rid of them, as efficiently and neatly as possible. Moving them from house to house had been easy enough, and with this last move they’d landed on a property with a substantial amount of land behind it. He’d been crafting a retirement plan, but it could never go ahead while they still lived on underground.

    And so, the time had come to put into action his plan. Materials were sourced, a space in the diary was cleared, help had been enlisted — it was all very thorough. A plan to eliminate 6 people was, unsurprisingly, not easy to find in the self-help section of the local bookstore, but he’d always been a real go-getter so it didn’t matter. Fire seemed kinder than water, or guns. Fire would be swift; it would hurt them, but it would also do him the kindness of not creating too much mess at the end. Yes, fire seemed fitting for a farewell gathering. It would be a celebration; a birthday party for his crimes.

    When the day arrived, Isla woke slowly, drifting back and forth between dream and reality. In her dream, she was walking with her niece, holding hands. Her niece never lived long enough to learn to walk, so she didn’t want to let the dream go, she wanted to stay long enough to see who her niece had become. Her tether was broken when the basement door crashed wide open, light pouring down the stairs like a waterfall to land at her feet, although interrupted by the shadow of her captor.

    One by one, all six of them were guided up the stairs and out into the garden. It had been so many years since they’d been outside, Isla worried she might spontaneously combust and become particles that floated away — which would of course be yet another daring escape plan if only there were a way to really make it happen. Instead, she was confronted with the other kind of combustion waiting to happen. Six metal crosses stood at equal distance in the field, each with chains attached and straw at their feet. Isla was sure she must have died already and gone to hell.

    As she was being led towards her cross, literally walking to her grave, a loud bang was heard from inside the house. Her captor spun around with such ferocity she feared he might take her with him, but instead she was planted, and he had retreated to find the source of the noise. Suddenly, it occurred to Isla that her jailor’s attention was caught. He was too busy making sure nothing in the house was broken, and this was her chance, her last chance. She took one last look at her family, all chained up in an orderly fashion. These people she’d shared her air with for the last 10 years seemed to have none left themselves. Where there had once been eyes that sparkled as they caught the light, now there was hollowness. With a sob that choked its way out of her throat, she turned and ran to the alley at the side of the house.

    The gate was unlocked, and suddenly she was in the street. All around her were other people’s houses, a smorgasbord of idyllic picket fences and slate roofs. Isla knew any one of these houses could’ve been her own in the last decade; she would’ve been sitting underground without knowing. Her feet began to pick up a fast pace, and she was well on her way when her jailor realised he was missing a captive. That spark that died in him long ago, the one that made him want to keep these people all to himself, was reignited. The thrill of the chase was back, and he began to run after her. Ten years of being kept in a basement meant he was guaranteed to catch up to her, after all.

    Once Isla noticed she was being followed, she tried to increase her speed, and instead found she was starting to lift away from the ground. With each step she moved further up and up into the sky, until she was almost level with the chimney stacks that peered up from each house. Isla’s connection to the physical had almost entirely disintegrated, but it wasn’t enough to stop her from the occasional slip. A bolt of fear shot its way through her veins when she, a couple of times, almost fell within grasping reach of her jailor, who was still running after her.

    She thought to herself about how each house must have their fire lit, because the smell of smoke as she rose higher only grew stronger. Even though her feet no longer touched anything, they were getting hotter, and her ears were ringing, a high pitched noise that was like a laser beam straight through to her brain. She was so exhilarated she felt like screaming, but it wasn’t a high-pitched scream of excitement that left her body. It was guttural, deep, the kind of scream that would pummel you in the stomach and make you double over. It was a scream of release, and of pain. And as she kept making her way up, the clouds around her got greyer until it looked like it might rain. Her body was so hot at this point she thought how refreshing the rain would be on her skin. But relief never came, and eventually she ascended beyond the clouds, beyond any point where she could still see the earth, still see her family. She was in a loop of running away from something, but at this point she turned back, and there was no-one there. Maybe there hadn’t ever been anyone there in the first place — maybe she was finally free from the jail she had put herself in from the start.