one
Addy
I’m painting a little bluebird. He’s been coming to visit me every day for a week now.
I mix the colors on my palette, trying to capture his various shades of blue.
He's a pretty bird. I know he's a he because his feathers are so bright and beautiful. Funny how the males always have the prettiest plumage. The females pale in comparison.
I stroke the brush across the canvas, enjoying the smooth glide of the wet paint over the slightly textured surface. I've been painting for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a little girl, and my dad locked me up in here. I have a TV, although I've never really cared for watching it. And Dad has supplied me with plenty of books.
But painting has always been my favorite thing of all. Time passes quickly when I lose myself in the brushstrokes. I'll start painting in the morning, and before I know it, night has fallen. I don’t notice the sun setting until it’s already disappeared beyond the horizon. That's what I love about painting. I can lose myself completely in the creation emerging on the canvas. Forget that I'm a pretty bird in a gilded cage.
I paint birds more than anything else because I feel like one, only I'm trapped. I long to spread my wings like the birds that swoop and soar through the sky just outside my window. I wish I could capture one and bring it in here with me, keep it as a pet so I won't be so lonely.
But then I remember what it’s like to be locked up in this room, and I could never subject one of those precious creatures to the same fate.
Sometimes, I paint them in cages with intricate ironwork. But no matter how pretty I make the cage, they're so much prettier painted soaring free through the sky.
My room is beautiful, large and tastefully decorated with its own luxurious bathroom.
I remember the last time I left this room. It was the day I turned fourteen. My father never forgets my birthday, but we never celebrate it either because it marks the day my mother died. Dad chooses to remember that instead, that she died giving birth to me.
You killed your mother.That’s what he told me. And, honestly, I get it. How can he celebrate the birth of the person who killed his wife?
The guilt is constant. I wish I could’ve known her. But that’s one of life’s great ironies because she’d still be here if not for me. But it is what it is. I can't change any of it.
The day I turned fourteen, Dad had a bunch of his business associates over for dinner. Until that point, I had free run of the house. I was able to go to the library, the kitchen, and the backyard, which was completely fenced in. Sure, the fence was too high to see over, and no one could see in, but at least I was able to smell the grass and feel the breeze on my skin.
That was four years ago
Four long years.
I still cringe when I remember that fateful birthday when everything changed.
I wanted to make Dad proud. I wanted to show him that I supported him and that I was growing up to be responsible. So, I brushed out my long, caramel-colored hair and put on my prettiest white dress and went down to the dinner. Uninvited.
Dad never explicitly told me to stay out of sight when his business associates were over, but it was like an unspoken order. I stayed away when he had company and left him to his business.
Never before had I dared to let myself be seen.
But for some reason, I did that day.
I walked into the dining room, where Dad was seated at the head of the table. Every other chair was occupied with men my dad’s age and older. There must have been at least twenty of them in the room with my father.
The conversation ceased when I entered the room, and every gaze turned on me. There was something unsettling in each of the men’s eyes that I still don't understand, but the memory still makes me shiver to this day.
At first, Dad seemed furious at my interruption, but when he saw the attention I was receiving, he invited me to sit down right next to him. My heart soared and I smiled. I was happy to be sitting next to him like I was important. Like he was proud of me.
Several men spoke to me and told me how pretty I was. They asked Dad where he'd been hiding me all this time. He merely smiled and didn't answer.
After everyone left, I was beaming, glad to have been accepted by my father. I was hoping I could hug him. I could count on one hand the times my father had hugged me.
Twice. It was exactly twice.
I wanted a hug more than anything else in the world. From my dad.
But when everyone was gone, he sternly ordered me to my room.