Her Silent Cry

Twenty-Two

I heard their voices again. I went under the bed, but I could still hear them. I tiptoed to the corner of the room furthest from the door. I still heard them. I climbed up onto the windowsill, but I still heard them.

“You can’t keep a child like this,” she told the man.

“Like what?” he scoffed.

“In these conditions. Children need to be outside. They need sun and food—we both need more food.”

“For chrissake,” the man complained. “All you do is complain about what you’re not getting. I’m sick of it.”

“I’m not asking for much. Basic necessities.”

The man laughed, but I didn’t like the sound at all. “You’re both alive, aren’t you? You’re doing pretty well.”

Her voice got quiet and bitter. “You did this. You wanted this. I never wanted this, but here we are. If you’re tired of the way things are, let us leave.”

The man’s voice became a growl. “You’re not going anywhere with that kid. You understand me? I’ll kill you both. No one will ever find your bodies. Now get the hell out of my sight before I get really angry.”

Seconds later, she stepped into the room. When she saw me, she waved a hand frantically in a beckoning motion. “Get down from there,” she said in her harshest whisper.

We sat on the bed cross-legged, facing one another. The man wouldn’t bring us toys or books, she said, so we played games with her socks. She made shapes with them and told me their names. Horse. Mouse. Dog. The letter A. But today I didn’t want to play. When she made the shape of a heart, I swiped the socks off the bed, onto the floor.

“Hey,” she said.

“I want to go home,” I said.

She looked at the closed door. “Soon,” she said. “Very soon.”

I didn’t believe her.