32. Sarah Wainwright: I'm not scared

I was running from the ogres and witches. They were chasing me as I fled as fast as I could from my captors who had kept me bound on their own terms. The green grass passed quickly below my feet as arrows and gun shots flew by me, barely missing. I stumbled over the uneven earth, still not used to the feeling of my legs being free. I dodged and weaved through the forest, leaping over logs and getting scratched by the wild undergrowth. I was nearing the outskirts of the forest where I would reach the clearing. That was when I would be safe. I dived over a fallen pine tree and slid between a big boulder and the ledge that looked over the clearing that would provide me with protection. Hopefully my enemies would run past me as I took shelter. The ogres and witches worked for the Lord of Worms. They weren’t the only ones either; he had a whole following of monsters – ghosts, the boogieman and werewolves too. He was a nasty man who kidnapped little boys and held them for ransom. Or at least he had orders to do so. I had been one of his many prisoners but had found a way to escape. I was lucky.
I thought back to the previous night when I had been locked inside a dark cell-like room. The walls were made of stone and the floor was solid concrete. At night it had been so cold I lost the feeling in my toes and my fingers also went numb. There was a small window on the back wall, with bars that had kept me a prisoner inside the room. The Lord of Worms had come by every now and again handing out food, but mostly just teasing us as he found ways to pass the time. And then last night I had the perfect chance. As he was opening the door to my room my fellow prisoner attacked him in a fit of rage. The prisoner was around my age but had only arrived the previous day. He was still strong and somehow had miraculously managed to undo his ropes. When the Lord of the Worms entered our cell the boy lunged at the horrible man and I had taken my chance. I imagined I was a black panther. I crawled out of the room on all fours. When I was out of the room I stood up. Then I ran, as fast as I could, out of the prison-like building. Past all the other rooms with other prisoners watching me, encouraging me to run faster, to get away from this hell hole…

My fingers tapped away on my lap top as I wrote the next part of my novel. At least it was an attempt at a novel. It was to be the follow up to my first great success as a writer; my last story had been a best seller for months. The problem with finding success is that people often expect more of it and I was afraid I wouldn’t measure up – that I would become a failure. I highlighted my words and pressed DELETE. Each time I tried to put my thoughts down, I came up with the same story; always inspired by my past. It might come out in different ways, but it was always the same. A boy trying to run from horrible things. Ironic really, as that is what I have been doing most of my life. Even after all these years I still think about the events that forced me to lose my innocence.
It’s a sad day when you realize you’re father is no hero. Even sadder still when you find out he’s a monster of sorts. For me it was at the age of 9 when I discovered my father was part of a group who kidnapped the son of a wealthy family. Their aim was to get enough money to split between them to escape the hardships of poverty. But their treatment of that poor boy was inhumane. They had kept him in a deep hole in the ground and covered the top so it was pitch black. They gave him barely any food or water. They threatened to cut off his ears! To this day I have never shaken the absolute horror that I have felt for having a father capable of such inhumane acts. How could my father treat a boy with such contempt when I was the same age? I never understood how my father could justify his actions. Suppose if it had been me who was kidnapped? It wasn’t really worth thinking about anymore I guess. I had spent hours and hundreds of dollars talking it over with my therapist, trying to deal with it. My father was paying for his actions in jail. I swore I would never visit him in his cell. He didn’t deserve my time.
I let out a long breath and looked at the blank page staring back at me. My publicist would not be happy. She had been bugging me for weeks about my next draft for her to look over. But I had come up with nothing - or rather a number of nothings. I was uninspired. There was a knock on the door; I looked up as my wife, Monica, entered my office. “How’s it going?” she asked, sympathetic towards my ‘writers block’ as she called it. I called it a disaster. I was really starting to wonder if the whole writing thing was really what I was supposed to do. Sure I had a wild imagination, but I suppose I never really grew up in a way. I felt stuck in my childhood and the event that had shaped who I now was.
“Michele I’m sure something will come to you soon,” Monica continued, “and anyway if you don’t leave now you’ll be late,” she walked across the room and rubbed my shoulders. “Jeez Michele you’re so tense these days. You need to relax - you’re losing too much sleep over this novel of yours.” I laughed as I looked down at my watch. “Is that the time?!” I said alarmed, I stood up and kissed my beautiful wife’s forehead. “I’d better be off, I’ll be home for dinner,” I said. Monica laughed, “Hasn’t got anything to do with me cooking your favourite lasagna tonight, has it?”I smiled as I grabbed my car keys and ran out the door.
It took me just under an hour to reach the institute. It was 3 o’clock. I was just on time, visiting hours finished at 4 o’clock. I locked the car and headed towards the front entrance, trying not to think about what lay ahead. But it was no use. I slowed just before the steps to the entrance. I looked up at the huge brick walls topped with barbed wire and security cameras that stood before me. Beyond the walls of the prison were some of the worst people in all of Italy – my father included. I bent down and sat on the stairs leading up to the jail’s entrance and began to sob and then to weep. This always happened; I could never manage to get any closer to the entrance – even after all these years. But it was suppose to be different this time. I was now the same age as my father had been when he committed those horrible crimes. I wanted to prove that I was not like him; to prove it to myself. I wiped my eyes, hoping no one had seen me cry. I took a deep breath and stood up. I turned to face the entrance and forced my way forward.