Olivia
July2022
Ithink there’s a mouse in here.
I heard it, I was sure. A little chittering in the corner, near one of the larger cracks.
Wherever he was living within these walls, it had to have been higher than floor level because right now, the floor was an ocean. Inches of cold water everywhere, numbing my toes, causing me to shiver uncontrollably.
I wondered where he was.
I wondered if I tried hard enough, if he would come see me.
Merlin the Mouse, I would call him.
My mouse.
My friend.
How long had I been here? I wasn’t sure. Not more than eight days though. I was sure of it. I was positive.
I was still strong, still fighting, still pushing. Still not giving them a single thing.
I was fine. Everything was fine.
The door opened, but I kept staring at that crack. There was no point in looking, I knew who it was, what I didn’t know was how to get that mouse out. How to make him my friend.
Maybe if I offered him a piece of my bologna.
But I needed my bologna. Every piece of it, all for me.
But he would need some too, wouldn’t he? A little starving mouse, he needed a piece too. I could sacrifice that for him.
“They’re going to drain the water today,” Phil told me, sloshing through it in his rubber boots.
That’s nice—did he hear the mouse? I hope he didn’t. He seemed like the kind of guy who would kill him. If he killed my mouse, I would kill him. But he was being kind sometimes. Just sometimes, offering me some conversations, some kindnesses. He was so kind that his eyes didn’t even wander over my body despite the fact that I was completely naked now.
Maybe he wouldn’t kill my mouse. Maybe he would bring Merlin an extra piece of bologna.
“Olivia, you haven’t said a word in two days.”
What? Yes, I had. I spoke. I spoke all the time to the voices in my head. We had conversations. Conversations about the weather outside and conversations about what Isaak did to me. Conversations about a lot of things, and sometimes, the voices changed.Sometimesthe voice was a warm female voice that called me ‘baby girl’, and sometimes it was a scholarly, trusting voice that called me ‘darling’.
There were others too. A woman who talked about being tortured, who had given me advice about how to push through.
One who spoke of collapsing galaxies and gummy worms.
One who spoke of chasing the Devil around the world.
There were two others as well, almost similar. Similar inthe chilling undertones of death and darkness, but different in dialect and tone.
One of them called me ‘pup’, the other called me ‘prickling rose’. I liked them both. They made my heart calm. One more than the other but not less than another.
Oh…that rhymed.
Was that why I became a writer? Because I could rhyme?
I am Olivia Rose, I am a writer, I am unbreakable, I am Claimed.
