The Widow by Emily Newsome

Emily Newsome

Day 1 It has only been a week since daddy saved me from that man wearing a strange coat. Daddy swore he would never let anything like that happen again. I remember, he grabbed my hand and squeezed tightly, muttering in a low voice, “Keep your head down”. Daddy loves me with all his heart, but sometimes I wonder if he is a bit protective. Since last week, he has kept me inside my room. My room is small and cramped, decorated with a small bed, drawer, and desk. The window facing outside is the only indicator of whether it was night or day. Daddy gave me toys to play, despite my protests of being twelve. Twelve-year-old girls do not play with plush toys. Regardless, I think I will go to sleep to pass time.

Day 2 I look outside the window of my room, watching my friends approach the door. My father answers, shaking his head and sending them away. A few moments later, he opens the door to my room after walking upstairs. “Were my friends here?” I ask, watching as he brings me grapes and crust less sandwiches, something I preferred when I was three. “Yes, but they really ought to stay inside.” He told me. His eyes were filled with worry as he looks at me. “It is extremely dangerous out there. Men creeping at every corner to take a young girl for himself.” “How long do I have to stay here?” I ask, as he pulls out some clothing from my drawers. “Just until it is safe outside.” He promises. “When will that be?” I ask, feeling my heart sink to my stomach as he answers, “Not any time soon.”

Day 3 When I wake up, I find that my clothes, a light pink dress, were already set out for me. I go to my drawers, grabbing a black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. They were my usual attire, so I put those on instead. Daddy knocks soon after, then enters once I call him to come in. He carried a tray of utensils, and a glass of milk and pancakes. "I brought you breakfast”. He smiles until he sees me in my t-shirt and jeans. “Thank you, daddy. You can put it down on my dresser.” I say, pointing at the furniture. He does as I say, frowning at me the entire time. He walks toward the door, then carefully turns back to me. “Sweetie, don’t you like your new dresses?” “Honestly, daddy, they’re a bit too young for me.” I reply, causing his eyes to darken. “You are my little girl. I just want to keep you safe.” He says. I do not press the issue further, and continue staring outside the window, listening to the wind outside.

Day 4 I am starting to grow irritated, and tired of seeing all the same four walls that seem to shrink. It is suffocating me, but I did not want to look outside my window because I knew it was not safe. That is what daddy told me. He said I wanted to stay inside, and so I do. If only that stupid window was not mocking me. I approach that window to the outside world, looking into the streets filled with people and their mocking faces. They laugh at me. A sudden burst of anger consumes me, and I see nothing but red. I throw myself at the window, pounding, and screaming at those that enjoy the freedom, simply given to them. I continue my fit of rage until my door swings open and my father asks, “What are you doing?” His voice is strained. He attempts to comfort me, but I know I saw those faces outside.

Day 5 I tried looking away from the window, so that I could avoid the smiling faces, mocking me. One face, as white as a bed sheet flew toward me from the window. The face was daddy’s! I jump away, falling flat on my back and quickly tried to crawl away, but the face kept coming toward me, laughing. I screamed and cried, begging for it to go away, to leave me alone but it continued to approach me. It floated closely, inches from my face, and whispered how helpless I am, that I would be stuck here forever. I felt tears falling down my cheek. When daddy left me my breakfast, I took the knife and hid it under my bed for my own protection.

Day 6 All I could hear are those voices, telling me to look outside and watch those mocking faces. They laughed at me. Then the door to the room opens. It was one of those wide-deep smiling faces, coming toward me, coming to attack me. I grabbed my hidden knife under my bed and lunge toward those mocking faces. I swiped my weapon, aiming for the eyes of the face. The face screams in agony, begging for me to stop. It sounded like daddy, but I continue to attack it. The voices grow louder and louder, laughing at me. I do not stop until I hear the gurgle of the voices and then, complete silence. I look down at my attacker, a man, who I could not identify from his swollen face. I refuse to leave my room. Those faces are still out there. I can sense them.