The attic is the only place where no one can find me. Up two flights of stairs and one old, breaking ladder, peace exists. Darkness always engulfs the attic, making the room so black that, even with the brightest flashlight, you can barely see your hand in front of yourself. Dust covers every inch of the dark mahogany floors, and dirty white sheets hide the furniture my mother deemed unworthy of being displayed in her “perfect” house. The choking sadness that shrouds this space gives me happiness. I trapeze over old boxes marked “Family photos” and “Nicki’s ‘artwork’,” following the trail of clean floor I have created from too many visits up here. I pause to examine the gold framed, full length mirror propped against the aged blue background that makes up this room’s walls. My mother’s former prized possession remains broken from the night father came home much too drunk, and much too angry. I touch the shiny shards of sharp glass, shivering slightly at the empty cold sensation they leave on my skin. Collecting myself, I continue through the attic until I reach the very center. I rip the covering off of a musty purple velvet chair with a flourish. I have always hated that chair; the covering on the seat frays at the ends and, no matter how much sickly sweet perfume you pour onto it, the smell of my father’s cigarettes will not disappear. I sit down anyway, coughing as I breathe in the disgusting yet familiar scent of lilacs and daisies mixed with Marlboro. The poisonous cloud of some of the most horrid scents in existence does not bother me too much though. The boxes, the mirror, the dust; none of it matters, because it hangs here still.

The window. In this gloomy, sad attic, the window has become the only source of light and comfort. Through it, I can almost touch the brilliantly orange and gold trees; their leaves look like a dim fire high above the sapphire river that seemingly has no end. I want to believe the river runs to infinity, that it will never end, but nothing as beautiful as that can last forever. Emerald lily pads float so close together over the water one could be fooled into thinking they were part of the shore, but the bank has turned a different color now. Fallen leaves from the fire trees coat the ground around the wide stream in the color of Autumn, with the occasional army green shrub breaking the pattern. Tree trunks grow sturdily from the bank. Some are dark brown, others an ashy grey; all are close to the hard, steel grey boulders that produce small and tranquil waterfalls in the river. Behind all of this though is a perfect sunset, slightly masked by dark purple mountains. Yellow to orange to purple to blue, the sunset is the most vivid I have ever laid eyes on, and certainly the most captivating. I could spend hours looking through this glass barrier into a world as stunning as Neverland itself, and I do.

Sometimes, I imagine walking through this forest, smelling Autumn in the air and feeling the smooth trunks of the trees. I could watch the sunset from atop the slick boulders forever, living off of the perfectly ripe berries I am sure lie somewhere in the forest, unseen from my spot on the other side of the window. I would love to escape from this wretched place I am forced to call home, and escape to the other side at last. Maybe I would finally understand happiness, surrounded by adventure and peace in the form of a forest. I smile at the image of myself exploring the wilderness, discovering even more beauty than I am able to observe through my small windowpane. Barefoot, letting the grass tickle the bottom of my feet and hearing leaves crunch beneath my weight, I could spend everyday just wandering through the trees. One day, I would venture over the monstrous mountains and view the dazzling sunset unobstructed. Maybe a tiny village would lie beneath the huge peak, like the ones in colonial times, and I could -- Were those feet I just heard? Oh God, oh no! I leap from the velvet seat, hastily disguising it once again with the tattered sheet. Tired footsteps climb the ladder to my sanctuary. I sprint behind the broken mirror, catching myself as I stumble clumsily, just as the boards on the floor squeaks open noisily. While I hold my breath, floorboards groan as someone pulls themselves up through the floor with ease, as though they have done this many times before. Soft feet pad through the loft space, and I pray they will walk past me without trouble. Unfortunately, luck decides not to be on my side, and the footsteps cease right in front of me; only the mirror separates us. I can hear them breathing, sense their eyes closely examining the shards of glass still clinging to the mangled frame of what once was whole. The intruder sighs sadly, as though missing something.

“Broken still, just like me.” My eyes go wide like two full moons. I know that voice. My heartbeat quickens; I need to get out of here. I am relieved when the footsteps walk away from me and over in the direction of the window. Unfortunately though, the sound of rustling cloth and the distinct creak the velvet chair makes when I collapse onto it alerts me to the fact that this trespasser does not plan on going away anytime soon. I glimpse around the mirror and am faced with nothing but the cardboard boxes and sheets that have been my only company in the attic until now. I tiptoe out into the open, looking left then right, and silently race across the dreary room to the only exit. As I scramble past a stack of cardboard boxes containing equipment from my failed tennis days, I hesitate to glance back at the window one last time.

I inhale sharply at the sight before me. Sitting in the darkness, the window is no longer the only light; ash blonde hair almost glows from the velvet armchair, and I can only assume that my matching hair sparkles the same way when I am in that position. Slowly, a thin body stands from the chair and I conceal myself once again, for fear of being caught. My curiosity overwhelms me though, and I peek around a crate of tennis balls to see a slender, pale hand reaching out to the window. I almost shout out to keep them from hurting my precious treasure, but I hold myself back, biting my lip so forcefully I taste coppery blood. I stare, entranced, as the slim figure presses its cheek up against the cool glass and closes its bright blue eyes. Tears fall slowly at first, then more quickly as the intruder begins to let out cries of despair. I experience something in my heart, like a boa constrictor has crawled into my chest, and I begin to cry silently with them.

“I want to be on the other side.” I hear them whisper loudly between
wracking sobs, and I lose myself in their sadness. After a moment though, I remember that I need to abandon my oasis now or I am sure that I will be found out. So, I step again over photo albums and Christening dresses until I arrive at the hidden latch in the dark wood, the sound of bitter tears chasing behind me the whole way. As I descend slowly down the cheap ladder from which I entered this strange event, I cannot help but think that I have been very wrong about my mother.