When I was a little girl and my mom was still alive, she would tell me, “Prairie, you are the light I'm always looking for.”
My mom was depressed but she always told me that I was the sunshine she needed. I hung on to that. I still do.
I remember those words—to be the sunshine, be the light, even when everything seems so dark. That’s what I try to be right now.
I’m waiting, hoping, because eventually there will be a crack and the light will come in and I will be free.
I’m dressed for the day and I’m wondering why Marjorie hasn’t come in and told me it’s time for breakfast. Usually about now she carries in a tray with oats and juice and sets it down on my desk, telling me I should eat like a good little girl.
But the clock on the side of the bed says it’s 9:30 in the morning, which is already an hour later than normal.
One thing about Marjorie and Horace is they are regular. And while I know they’ve lost their minds, one thing they can keep track of is their routine.
I am their routine.
Something is off. I sit there, focusing, trying to listen, remembering that for the last few weeks Marjorie has looked more pale, weaker. Horace has been doing most of her chores.
I hear something.
There are the sounds of muffled sobs. Crying. I listen more closely, straining to hear. It's not Marjorie; it's Horace.
“Wake up,” he moans. “You can’t be gone. You can’t leave us. Alice and I need you.” He's weeping, his voice traveling through this drafty cabin. “This wasn't the plan. This wasn't the plan. Marjorie. My love. You need to wake up, just wake up!”
Marjorie is dead.
I press my lips together. Think, Prairie, think.
“Daddy,” I call out. “Can I help you? Maybe I can wake up Mommy. I can sing a favorite lullaby to her.”
This is a ridiculous thought. But I know he is as delusional as his wife was.
I hear the movement of the big man. His steps coming closer, down the hall, and then the bedroom door opens.
“Alice,” he says, “you're awake. I need your help. Can you help your father?”
“Of course I can,” I tell him. “What do you need? I heard you crying, Daddy. What's wrong?”
“Your mother is sleeping, and I think she needs you to help wake her up.”
“Of course, Daddy.”
His hands are shaking, his eyes bloodshot as he unlocks the chain that is tethered to a bolt in the center of the room.
He's the one whom always leads me from this room.
I go out once or twice a day, usually outside for a walk or to work in the garden.
He always tells me it's for my own good when he holds a gun close to my back or
has me chained up at my ankles, while I plant seeds or dig up carrots, so I can't run away.
But now he is distraught, confused, agitated. All these things will work in my favor.
He leads me with the chain like a leash. He guides me down the hall to his bedroom.
Of course, I want to leap at him right now. But he's not that stupid.
He's pulled a small revolver from his pocket.