Voice

Second part, of The Unspeakable

I woke up to a soft kiss on my forehead. I didn't dare move. My father couldn't know I was awake. He brushed my hair softly and gave me one more kiss before exiting my room. I lifted my head and waited for the front door to swing shut behind him.

When I heard the muffled click, I got out of my bed and walked into the bathroom. I looked in the mirror, but saw no sign of the kisses he left on my forehead. I could feel them still, but they couldn't be seen. I touched my forehead and felt for them. They couldn't be felt. It was all in my head.

For so many reasons I wanted it to be real. I wanted one last reminder of my father’s real love for me. It came swiftly of his tongue when he sang “Elaine”. I looked forward to it everyday after he came home from work. It was the only thing that held me back from the events I was about to partake in.

Tomorrow was the day that everything would change. I knew it would hurt my father in more ways than one. I felt bad, but I had to do it. There was no way that I was going to sit around until I was old enough to be believed and understood. By then, it would be too late.

Was I nervous? Of course. I wasn't fond of taking drugs and pills again like in my past. It hurt just thinking about it, but this time I would chose to take them. Before, I was forced and tied down. Tomorrow I would be free. I would be in charge.

I came back to my room and pulled out a box from under my bed. I opened it cautiously and looked inside. My bottle of pills and cocaine baggie were still safe inside. Most people would think that a ten year old getting drugs was a hard thing to do. It really wasn't.

At my school, most of the kids my age are either doing it or selling it. All you need is enough cash to buy their trust and they'll get you whatever you need. It was a great cover up. Who'd expect a little ten year old to be selling drugs? No adult ever would believe that.

I shoved the box under my bed and sat at my desk. I smiled slightly at the “empty” journal I had almost completed. This clue had to be hard to find. If the police officer found it too early, they’d think the same thing they've always thought; she's making it up. I really wasn't though. I never lied.

Did I make up the reoccurring dreams I had now because of my past? No. Did I want to have those dreams? No. Did I want to be ignored because I was so young? No. Did I want to have gone through all of the unspeakable things that I did? No!

I never asked to be raised by the unspeakable people. They never asked for me either. I couldn't escape my past, which wasn't the reason for my easy exit out. I just needed the police officers to look past the little girl and see through her eyes. To see what I had to go through growing up. Maybe then, my story would be understood and believed.

For two years now, I had gone to the police department to file a report on the unspeakable people. I remember the first time I ever went. I asked my father, who was new to me at the time, to take me to the police department. I guessed he thought I just wanted to see the police officers or experience going there. I had bigger plans.

My father held my hand and walked me to the walk to the front desk. A lady greeted us and asked us what we were there for. My father looked down at me and I spoke up, “I'm here to report a crime.”

The lady laughed sweetly and told me, “I'll get an officer right down here for you little dear.”

I didn't like the playfulness in her voice. I was serious. My speaking wasn't great, but my writing was better. I planned on writing out everything, but the officer came out with no pen or paper. He kneeled down and smiled at me, “What crime are you reporting?”

I was nervous, but spoke as best I could, “I used to live with bad people.”

“What kind of bad people?”

“The kind in books. They kill people and hurt me.”

“Are you reporting a crime on bad guys in a book?”

Everyone chuckled, but I was not laughing, “I waz their baztard child-”

The police officer got to his feet and my father swooped down and picked me up. “Don't say things like that,” he scolded me.

I’d never seen his eyes get so hard. It affected me for days afterwards. He apologized to the police officers and took me outside. We had a long chat after we got home.

Nothing had changed from that day almost two years ago. The police department still didn't listen. They wrote me off and ignored what I told them. That's when I thought up the phrase of the unspeakable. I couldn't say what actually happened because no one believed it. It was that bad. They thought I had a foul mouth. I used words that a little girl shouldn't.

Saying what happened was unspeakable made it more speakable to the police officers. They'd listen longer until I had to say the actual unspeakable words. It hurt really. All I wanted was for someone to listen, for someone to believe me. I just wanted one person to hear what I said and believe every word I spoke. Not one person had done that in my lifetime.

I wrote another section in my journal. I only had one or two more, but my attention was lingering. Rewriting my past was hard. It was like experiencing it all over again, but not being there. As much as it was my gift to tell every last detail of my life, it also was the downfall of my emotions. Every step, every detail was painted in my old journal. I cried several times when I copied my sections down. I wanted that pain to end.

My attention rushed to the window. I peered out and saw my neighbor helping her nephew unpack his car. They seemed happy and cheerful. I liked Ms. Sabel. She was always happy and holding a smile across her face. Her house always had a bowl of candies for me to take from. Sometimes she'd tell me, “Elaine, don't be so selfless! Take more than one candy. You know if you don't eat it, I will and we both know I should lose the weight.”

I enjoyed being in her company. Although, she wasn't the best with adults. Kids she understood, adults not so much. Whenever my father dropped me off or picked me up, she'd stand quietly and give him a quick synopsis of what we had done. I didn't know why she was this way, but I was glad she opened up to me.

Before Ms. Sabel and her nephew could close their door to the house, I called out, “Ms. Sabel!”

“Oh! Elaine! What a pleasant surprise. Oh, Elaine, this is my nephew Charlie. Charlie, this is Elaine. She's my neighbor.”

“Hi,” he waved his hand and quickly dropped it back to the suitcase he was holding.

“Hi,” I spoke shyly.

“Did you want to come in and have some candies?” Ms. Sabel asked.

“I’d love to, but my dad told me I needed to start getting furniture moved and think about where to take it.”

“All by yourself? Are you going to be getting rid of some furniture?”

“Oh yes. I'm getting all new furniture in my room, so I've got to move it out and think of somewhere to take it.”

“Oh, child. I think you're mistaken, but if you need to take it somewhere, I'd love to take it off your hands.”

“That would be really nice. I’d only have to take it next door!”

“Yes,” Ms. Sabel called to Charlie who was now in his temporary room, “Charlie! We are going to go get some furniture. I need your help.”

Charlie’s voice was muffled by the wall in between us, “Okay, I'll be right there.”

All three of us walked to my house. It wasn't unusual for Ms. Sabel. She had come over many times to watch me or even bring me little gifts. Mostly candy. She knew the house pretty well too. My two guests followed me up the stairs to my room. I welcomed them warmly.

“So what's being taken out?” Ms. Sabel asked me.

“The dresser, my desk, and my night stand,” I informed her.

“Oh okay. Not the ebed though, right?”

“Right,” I told her and was glad no one peeked under my bed.

I removed the rest of my things out of my desk including the notebook. I shoved them underneath my bed when neither of them were looking. Charlie and Ms. Sabel picked up my dresser and managed to get it out and down the stairs without any snags on the walls. I was glad. One less thing to fix.

Ms. Sabel was sweating by the time all three pieces had been moved to her house. She wiped sweat off her forehead and leaned against the dresser that was standing in the middle of her living room. She turned to Charlie and back to me, “Want to have some lunch before you head back to your house?”

“Oh, well I would, but I already made plans for lunch,” I tried to sound disappointed that I couldn't stay.

It wasn't that I didn't want to. I did, but today was my last day to prepare for tomorrow, so time was of the essence. Ms. Sabel responded sadly, “Well, okay, but don't forget to take some candies with you. You know they are too much temptation for me.”

I took three candies and said my goodbyes. Ms. Sabel walked me home. Before I walked into my house I handed her something out of my pocket. She looked at it surprised. I told her, “If anyone is lost in finding me, give them the key.”

She smiled, “I will. You have a good day. Come over if you need anything.”

“I will.”

I went straight back up to my room and looked around. My transformation was still not complete. From under my bed, I pulled out a map of the city I lived in. It was difficult, but I managed to pin it up to my wall. I only fell a few times of my bed, but it was worth it. Very carefully, I pressed a pin into my wall and attached a strip of paper to it. I did my best to pin it in the spot of the address on the slip, but the address was the important clue. Where I put it almost didn't matter.

I looked back, away from my bed, and smiled brightly. It looked perfect and wasn't crooked at all. I probably would have fixed it if it had been or maybe I wouldn't have. The crookedness would have added to it.

Worry began to creep into my mind. Was giving Ms. Sabel the key a good idea? It wasn't that I didn't trust her, but what if she didn't go talk to the police and hand over the key? That would be a major disaster to my plan. Although, not getting to the map until later in the investigation wouldn't be so bad. As long as they went to the unspeakable house before they got the map of the inside. Without it though, they wouldnt know about the secret underground area. That posed an issue.

What if they saw no significance in the key though? It was a key to a savings box. That could be easily overlooked. It wouldn't be devastating, but really would be a waste of my time. Exactly a week before today, I snuck out of the house and went to the bank.

I handed the lady at the desk my key, “I wnt to make a depsit.”

“A deposit you mean. Well, I don't see why not. How much?” the lady stooped over me with her hands on her knees.

“I want to put this in.”

I handed her a paper with crayon marks on it. She looked at it and gave me a confused look. “Sweety,” she began, “A deposit is for money. Not paper.”

“Please. I want to put it my box. I want it to be safe just like the money I'm supposed to put in it.”

The lady looked at the paper and back at me. She sighed, “Okay, but just know we usually aren't supposed to.”

“Thank you!” I exclaimed and hugged her.

She hugged me back and took my drawing into the back where the boxes were kept. She returned back to me and told me, “It’s safe. Remember, keep this key safe. If anyone gets this, they will be able to access your box.”

“Okay, I'll potect it,” I told her, but knew that was the point.

That day was very difficult to plan out. I had to come up with excuses as to why I was there by myself without an adult and so much other nonsense. Luckily, being an innocent looking ten year old helps. Especially when you give them the sweet eyes. No one can deny them, well except for…

The drawing I put in my deposit box was a map and it was a very special one. Two years ago, when I was put in an orphanage, I redrew how the unspeakable house looked inside. I used crayons because that's all I had. I sketched the house and drew a line that the police were supposed to follow. My only problem was that the police had to go underneath a fridge in the house to get to where I was kept. At the time, the only thing I could think of was drawing a line straight through fridge. Seemed logical because that was the direction you were supposed to go. After that conflict, the rest was easy. I drew out my escape hoping the police would see where I was kept and how I had to escape.

I really hadn't thought of that day in a long time. It was that day of great success and yet it was the day I almost died. I wanted to look back on it as a triumph because I left that horrible house, but I could never picture it that way.

While I was trapped in the unspeakable house, I dug out a section of the wall and created a tunnel up to ground level. It was hard to hide as my progress went further and further. If the hole in the wall was ever discovered before I finished it, I wouldn't have gotten out. I probably would never have been found and the unspeakable people would have gotten away with so much. They still had gotten away with it, but tomorrow was going to change that.

Anyway, when I finally popped out of the dirt I was relieved, but also exhausted. My body was weak and numb. I crawled out of the earth and scrambled down the street. I tried to run, but I nearly tripped. Instead, I walked or stumbled as quickly as I could. I didn't have the strength to check behind me, so I held onto the hope that the unspeakable people weren't coming after me.

I didn't remember much after that. I remember collapsing and waking up multiple times to a white room. I couldn't tell if I died or I just couldn't see anything, but brightness. In the end, I was in a hospital with multiple needles in my arm along with some tubes in my nose. I wanted to rip everything off, but I was too weak.

My days at the hospital weren't the best, but the people were very friendly. I guess everyone is when you are a little kid who looks like they've gone through hell. I just wish someone at the hospital had taken my words more literally. They thought I was having nightmares and didn't know what happened to me. They always frowned when I gave them the same answer every time they asked what happened to me. They wanted to know how I ended up the way I did, but they didn't believe my story.

In the end, when I was finally healed, they sent me off to an orphanage, so I could find a new family. All I could hope was that my new mom and dad would treat me better than my old ones. The unspeakable people were not great parents. I didn't know why I called them mom and dad at the time. I was naive.

I turned back to my journal. There was one good thing the unspeakable people did. Although it's hard to say something good about such evil people, it was true. When I was really young and just grasping words and speaking, they tossed me books. They would never teach me anything. Most days, I'd never see them. I spent those days reading books and whatever horrible magazines they'd toss into my cage.

I didn't learn all by myself of course. One of their victims that was with them for almost a month played a big role in teaching me. The unspeakable people, every once in awhile, would kidnap someone and torture them. Once they were done torturing them, they'd kill them. It was horrible. I learned about death the hard way.

For this particular victim, Harold was his name, the unspeakable people chose to starve him. Because I was so little, I was usually able to walk around freely in the underground room where I was kept. Harold and me became close due to me being able to be around him so often. The unspeakable people didn't care.

Most days, I'd try to sneak him food, so he'd live just a little longer to teach me how to read. I would hand him my books and he’d lean against the cage bars, so I could read with him. At first, he read to me and used his finger to point to each work as he said it. If I was ever confused on the meaning of a word, he’d tell me its definition.

After a week or so, I had caught on quickly. Harold was proud of me. He always told me that he admired my determination to learn something that I’d never need unless I managed to escape. I couldn't talk much at the time, so I could never tell him anything. Harold helped though. We began to read outloud together and my understanding of the words got better.

Within a few more weeks I began to talk. It wasn't very good and most times wasn't understandable. Harold was always patient and helped me as best as he could. I didn't know how to express myself to him. I knew he was dying. He could barely sit up against the bars of the cage or lift the books. I had to read to him as he weakened.

I wanted more than anything to tell him I was thankful. I never got the chance. Within a month, Harold was dead. He had given the last parts of his life to teach me something that would soon be the most important tool of my life. Words. I wasn't the best at speaking, but I could write like crazy. It wasn't eligible all the time, but it was to me. I wrote down Harold’s last words in my old journal, “Get out of here if you can and use that voice of yours. You can't use it here.”

I cried for days when Harold died and his body was removed. I struck out at the unspeakable people. They beat me until I passed out. From that time on, I wasn't allowed to leave my cage freely. They didn't mind that I could begin to talk. They didn't really care about anything.

That was one of my darkest memories. There were darker, but I made sure to never go back to those memories. They were to unspeakable even for me. I finished up my journal and tossed it onto my bed. A shiver of hesitance crept over me. My father’s memories burst through all the dark ones.

My father was fond of me and I knew he was from the first time we met one on one. He smiled brightly and his eyes lit up. I didn't know why I made him so happy. It seemed strange, but I liked it. The unspeakable people never smiled at me. They never looked at me the way my father did.

It was the first time I felt a parent bond. It was like the ones you read in stories. The kind that is unconditional and usually leads the parent to giving up something for their child. It was usually their life, but this was not the case for my father. In fact it was the opposite.

I never blamed my father for ever not listening. It wasn't his fault. I knew he cared about me and wanted the best for me. I felt so horrible that I was going to the extremes that I was because I knew it was going to hurt him. I didn't want it to. After all he had done. It wasn't fair that I was going to put him through this.

He’d given me a wonderful life filled with joy and happiness. Yes, he didn’t believe the unspeakable things I said, but he tried to make sure that those things never happened again. He bought me books and took me for ice cream. We watched tv together and I passed out on his shoulder so many times. He was my strength and I was his. It was all of these sweet memories that tried to block my actions for the next day.

I couldn't back out now. I had planned for months for this one day. Every detail was laid out and every error fixed. Tomorrow was the day, no matter what memories came to me the next morning. Today, my father was gone because of work. I never minded, but tomorrow was his day off. I hated doing this to him, but he always slept in. When he woke tomorrow morning, I will have been long gone.

It wasn't my favorite idea, but it's what I needed. I needed time in the morning to take the drugs and finish setting up my room. I didn't want to be rushed. There was too much risk of my father leaving for work before I was ready. That would be disastrous. I couldn't imagine him walking in my room and seeing my dying. He wouldn't be able to do anything, so he’d cup me in his arms and cry. That would kill me.

I was not going to let that happen. He didn't deserve that. He didn't deserve me. Tears streamed down my cheeks. I didn't want to hurt him. That was never my intention. I just wanted the unspeakable people to get punished for what they did and for people to hear what I've been trying to tell them. If I didn't have to die I wouldn't.

After two years of going in and out of the police department, I decided that would never work. I needed another tactic. Suicide was the only answer. It was the only way to grab people's attention. Then they'd pick up my clues and piece together what happened. Everything would be tied together and my story would get a happy ending. If everything went well of course.

I brushed the tears off my cheek and reached under my bed. I pulled out an old shoe. It was one of a pair that I wore while I was held captive at the unspeakable house. A couple months ago, I tossed its twin into the tree in front of the house. It was honestly terrifying as I hadn't gone back there since I'd escaped. I was there for only a few moments, but it still made me shake.

It wasn't all that painful though. What was painful was seeing the unspeakable people walking around town. I knew they did it on purpose. I'd be walking with my father, our hands intertwined, and I’d turn to the other side of the street and they'd be there. They'd stand there and watch me pass. Grins crossed both of their faces. I’d grab my father’s hand tighter and speed up my pace.

Some terrors never leave. It seemed like I could never escape the memories. There was a lot I forgot, but too much still stuck in my head. Little things reminded me of my past and I was sent back in time to those awful moments. Sometimes I’d cry, but I was ten years old now. I was tired of crying.

I was determined. That's the only way I had gotten this far. I was determined to learn how to write and eventually speak. I was determined to escape the unspeakable house. I was determined to convince the police department that I wasn't lying. I was determined to make my plan work. I was determined to change everyone's perspective.

For the rest of the my last day, I engaged in my favorite events because they would be the last things I ever did. I reread my favorite books and ate my favorite food and even played with some dolls that I'd never touched. I was happy or rather content.

When my father came home I greeted him at the bottom of the stairs. He dropped his suitcase and ran to me. My father picked me up and spun me around. I squealed out in laughter. He pulled me closer and hugged me tighter. I pressed my head into his neck. This would be the last time he came home to me.

“How’s my girl?” He laughed.

“Better now,” I told him.

“That's great. You still up to read before we make dinner?”

“Yes, please!”

“Come on, let's finish this book finally!”

My father put me down and I ran to the living room. I pulled down the book we were reading and jumped into my father’s lap. I laid back against him and let him read out loud. I followed each word as it escaped his mouth.

This was one of my favorite books and I'm glad I got to hear the ending before my life ended. The story was about a person who gets murdered. There was a twist. The victim who is murdered knows their killer. In order for the murderer to come to justice, the victim leaves behind a trail of clues that further prove who killed them. The story takes place in the detective's perspective as they try to discover each clue and find themselves closer to the real murderer.

We were now at the ending in which the murderer is finally caught and put in cuffs. The detectives get one last talk with the murderer before they are sent off to trial. That moment was short, but they asked why they did it and if they regretted it. The murderer wasn't didn’t give great information. That was just me. My father liked that part.

The book ended and wrapped up all of its loose ends. Everything except the main detective. They were very smart and caught on well. I guess I wasn't fond of them just because I didn't think those kind of detectives existed. I'd be lucky if mine were as good. For all I knew, my story will never be understood and my murders will never be found. Once I took those drugs tomorrow morning, there will be no guarantee that my plan would work.

My death was only the start. Once I was gone, I could only hope for the best. I could not control anything after tomorrow morning. My story was in the hands of whoever took over the responsibility. My story would only unfold as far as they took it. I was no longer important. Only my death was.

My dad put down the book and threw me over his shoulder. He took me to the kitchen and sat me on the counter. “Want to make some pizza?” My father asked while already taking out the ingredients.

“Yes, please! I want to put on the cheese!” I exclaimed.

“Heck no! That's the best part!”

“Plllllllllllease!”

“Fine, fine. You can.”

“Yay!”

I sprinkled flour onto the counter and we both rolled the dough out. My father did most of the work, but I helped make the dough circular. My father let me finish that while he prepped the sauce. He dribbled it on and spread it around in circles, but left space for the crust ends. I sprinkled on the cheese, but took a pinch and threw it him. He threw more at me.

We went back in forth until the cheese ran out. After that, my father added some toppings and threw it into the oven. We watched through the glass as the pizza rose and fell and singed. After staring for half an hour, he brought the pizza out and sliced it into triangles. He filled our plates and set them on the table. I grabbed the drinks and took my place next to him.

The pizza was very good and very cheesy. We ate mostly in silence, but that was due to mouth fulls of sweet gooey dough. It was one of my favorite meals to make with my father. We always had fun. I was glad it was the last meal we would make together. I’d hold onto that and never forget.

After dinner, my father and me went to his room to watch tv. I sat in bed with him, but he fell asleep after a little while. I sat up and looked at him. He was peaceful and happy. I didn't want to wake him. I knew when he woke up the next morning, things would be different and I'd be gone.

I leaned towards his face and set my lips to his forehead. I stayed kissing him for a moment hoping the feeling would stick with him when he woke. I wanted him to know that I loved him, but I had to kill myself. I had to use my voice.

Author's Note

Sorry if it is poorly written. I never got around to serious editing because I began writing a book.