THE CELL

THE CELL

I sat on the floor and felt the rough stones at my back through my thin and ragged shirt. The room was small and cramped but it really didn’t matter, I had very few possessions anyway. It was a small attachment to the house and had once been used as some kind of accessory building or storage shed, perhaps a rudimental entrance way for there was a door that led into the main house. The low roof had at one time leaked causing watermarks on the walls and a strange funky smell that I knew must be mold.

We moved into the house when I was six and it had been twelve long years since I had occupied the area. My father’s business was doing very well and he purchased the house, wanting the world to know how he had come up in the world. My parents and three brothers all had rooms on the second floor, there were several full washrooms up there as well as a room my mother occasionally used as a sewing room. My family referred to my room as a cell.

From my earliest days, I was aware that I was different. My parents showed kindness, compassion, and even, do I dare say it, love, or at least, their version of love, to my three older brothers. They wanted for nothing. All the care that my parents possessed in their bodies had apparently run out when I was born, but then again, I was a girl child, and as such, I had no soul.

I received no warmth from my family, I never remember being held, being hugged, being kissed. No kindness, not even in the smallest degree was ever forthcoming. The only touch I ever received was at the end of a wooden spoon by my mother or by my father’s fist or his leather belt; punishment for some small infraction or misdemeanor, either real or imagined.

There were rules, so many rules that I had to learn as a young child. Never speak unless you are spoken to. Never show emotion, never look another person in the eye. Never complain. Never try to rise above your station in life. I was taught that girls are worthless, they are worse than worthless. Girls were not to mingle with the family. Girls were not to eat with their families or join in with family gatherings as this would remind the extended family of their unfortunate existence. They were not to sully the car by riding in it. Their use of the house was restricted. They were to stay in their cell at all times unless it was to answer the call of nature, or when their services were required by their parents or brothers.

 Thus my room became my cell, my prison, for no one ever ventured in it and I seldom ventured out. As I grew older I came to realize that it wasn’t the walls that took away my freedom, that trapped me in this hell hole. It wasn’t the rusted iron bars on the small dirty window or the thick black door that impeded my escape, for there was no lock on the door. I was so insignificant to my family that the expense of a lock was… well I just wasn’t worth even that slight expense.

It was understood that I would remain in my cell. The threat of a beating was the only lock that my father needed. When I needed to use the necessary, I would creep quietly down the hall like a wraith, hugging the shadows and turning my face and body to the wall if I ever happened to be in the same hallway as my family.

The wooden floor of my cell was warped, worn down by twelve years of unsettled pacing. A channel down the centre of the room was proof of my restlessness. Twelve years of walking and wondering. Wondering if this is my fate, to live and die in this small prison, without experiencing the joys of having a marriage, to ever give birth to a child. A boy child, of course. I knew only too well the curse of being a girl child. But I had been told that I would never marry for what man would have me.

 While my three brothers enjoyed their own comfortable rooms and toys, fresh clothes, and good food, all this and more was denied me. I was the family curse, the dark evil that needed to be hidden away. I was let out of my room for school only and this was because the truant officer and the police had threatened my father with drastic measures if I did not attend school.

I loved school, it was the only time I was ever let out of my room other than when I was made to cook and clean. I was allowed to raise my head and bravely look people in the eye without undergoing a beating, although I never did. I could speak up and say what was on my mind without retribution, though of course I never did. I was never given a lunch box like my older brothers but that mattered little as I never was given a lunch.

 I had one friend at school, her name was Kinsey. Kinsey had one leg that was shorter than the other, causing her to limp, so Kinsey was an outcast too. Children could be so cruel but I had learned that families were even more cruel. But Kinsey was a brave outcast. She stood up against the bullies and never backed down, while I hid my head in shame as they called me horrible names. I felt it was my lot in life to receive their harsh comments, but Kinsey felt otherwise. Kinsey once punched the chief bully in the face when she overheard him say derogatory things about my clothes. A bloody nose served to give us a measure of peace, at least for a while.

 Kinsey would always bring two sandwiches to school every day, one for herself and one for me. She always told me it was her mother’s fault and that she kept telling her mother that she could only eat one sandwich but her mother insisted on sending her with two. I knew Kinsey fibbed, but I also knew that the reason she fibbed was she wanted to preserve what little pride I yet clung to.

Every week I would go to the school library and take out more books and sneak them into my room in my bag. I would spend hours in my cell reading, the single naked light bulb that dangled from the ceiling, my only real source of light. The school library was my favourite place in the whole world, and the school itself was my second favourite place. It was my solace, my one source of freedom. I never showed to my family, not even for a moment, how much I truly loved to go to school, lest it be denied me. I walked to school by myself, however, my brothers were always driven to school in my father's car before he continued on to his business. My brothers never acknowledged me at school and never came to my defense against bullies.

My two older brothers were younger versions of my father, same old beliefs and values and ancient customs and traditions as their forefathers. They also had the same anger, the same heavy fists that they used on me when they were angry. I felt sorry for their future wives. 

My youngest brother was slightly less harsh. He would frequently leave the room when I was being beaten, I was never sure if he did so because he didn’t want to see his sister hurt or was too much of a coward to remain. I chose to believe that he didn’t want to see me hurt. And I base this belief solely on the day my family was having a special dessert. I, of course, was not worthy to partake in a piece of the desert, but I looked at it with longing and I know my youngest brother caught my gaze before I swiftly lowered my head. He asked for another helping and poked at it until the other members of the family had left the room. Once we were alone, I felt his gaze upon me, glancing up I watched as he pushed the untouched cake towards me and then hurried from the room. It was as if I had died and gone to heaven. A family member had at last acknowledged me, the cake was good too.

 The reason this event stood out so much in my mind was that I was expected to serve my father and brothers their dinner. I was allowed to eat the leftovers on their plate but three hungry boys seldom had any leftovers. I gleaned what I could from the finished plates or whatever might be left in a pot or pan. Sometimes to my shame, I had to glean from the garbage bin. It was a way of life for me, sometimes if my mother wasn’t looking I would sneak food into my pockets and wolf it down when I had been sent to my cell for the night. If I was caught, she would beat me severely with a big wooden spoon. I think she looked for ways to discipline me with her spoon, even when there was no cause.

 I wondered why she, as a female, had such an intense hatred for me. On those rare occasions when she spoke to me she would hurl the same accusation at me. I almost died because of you. It was years before I discovered the answer to this burning question in my mind. I had always imagined that maybe she had a difficult birth and maybe that is why she hated me. I was to find out differently.

 I had broken a bowl, a worthless chipped bowl that we used to feed the dog. She beat me severely and as she beat me, the truth finally came out. She herself had been beaten severely, within an inch of her life after she had shamed her husband by giving birth to a girl child. All these years she had resented me and hated me for her pain and for being a girl and shaming her in front of her husband and his family who had been blessed by having all boys. My father was the only one of his many brothers to suffer the stigma of having a girl child.

My name was never used, I was always called Girl and for years I thought this was my name. It was only when I went to school that I learned my real name. I hold it tight inside my mind, inside my heart, inside my soul. To reveal it, to speak it would offer the spirits a chance to take it from me.

Even our dog ignored me. He had more privileges than I, Toby ate in the kitchen, and lay on a thick mattress on a raised carved bed while I lay on a thin pallet on the floor. Often my father would take him to the park driving him in the car, which I was not allowed in. They used his name, he was not called Dog the way I was called Girl.

 Weekends were challenging, there was no school and no charity sandwiches from Kinsey. I read constantly and developed a very active imagination. Books were my escape, my way of living in another time, or place. 

Winters were the worst, there was no heat in my little cell and I shivered pitifully under my thin little blanket. The window would be covered with so much frost that I couldn't see out of it. Every winter I developed pneumonia, but was never allowed to see a doctor. I remember one year I was so sick that I thought I might die. I remember crossing the room on my hands and knees to the wooden crate I used to hold my meager possessions. I combed my hair and painstakingly changed into the shirt I liked best, crawled back and lay down on my cot, and crossed my arms across my chest in the way I had seen dead people lie. I was totally surprised that come morning, I was not only alive, but the fever seemed to have broken. 

The summers were not much better. My little storage room attached to the side of the house became like an oven. I would be drenched in sweat by mid-morning.

It was my older brother's birthday and I could hear my parents and brother’s celebrating. If I pressed my ear to the door and held my breath I almost felt that I was a part of the celebration. I could hear the singing and the laughter. That night I sinned gravely because I envied him. Envied him his freedom, his rights as a firstborn, his rights as a son, his privileges of having a nice bedroom, nice clothes, a big TV in his room, envied him the right to eat food three times a day. I fear I sin a lot.

I had seen my eldest brother’s room occasionally, mostly when he had gone drinking with his friends and then staggered home, only to vomit all over the plush carpet in his room. My mother would summon me on these occasions and order me to clean up his mess. I had seen my other brother's rooms occasionally as well, their rooms were nice but as they were second and third sons, they had no TVs in their rooms of course, they did not merit the privileges of the firstborn. I, as a girl, merited nothing and was told that I should be grateful that when I was born I was not left in the forest for the animals to feed on.

One Friday I thought the whole family had left to attend a family wedding, so I ventured out and decided to take a shower, a privilege I was not allowed. I was to wash in the laundry tub only on a Saturday night. My father, having apparently forgotten something, suddenly appeared in the hallway. I automatically lowered my eyes and bowed my head respectfully, then turned my body to the wall. I was met with swift and brutal retaliation for my sneaky actions. My father picked me up like a dog, by the scruff of the neck, shook me, slammed me against the wall, and threw me down the stairs. As I lay broken on the landing he stepped over me, turned and kicked me, and then carried on with his day eager to attend the family celebrations.

I crawled to my room, dragging my leg behind me, trying not to bleed on the floor outside my door, I would only have to scrub the floor if there was blood on it. I wasn’t sure if my leg was broken, or sprained.

I suppose it served me right for trying to get above my station in life, to suppose that I was worthy of using a toilet or a shower.  

It was summer, there was no school. I lay there for three days, no one came to see if I was dead or alive. Why would they? I was only a girl. I knew I was a prisoner, maybe not like someone who had been tried by a jury and sentenced to life in prison, but a prisoner nonetheless. I was an emotional prisoner, a physical prisoner. A prisoner of Body, Mind, and Soul; although I had been taught as a young child that because I was a girl, I had no soul. But I felt it, I felt it deeply.

 I read a poem once in a book from the school library. It was written by a man called Richard Lovelace, back in 1642, when he was in prison, he wrote 

“ Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.” 

I know he was referring to the fact that even though he was in prison his spirit, his soul, and thoughts were free. But Lovelace was released from jail while my sentence is a life sentence. Lovelace was a man, I, however, am told that I am without a soul because I am a girl and I live in a cell.

( This story is dedicated to all the girls and women who have no hope, are offered no respect, and are given no love. These females are found throughout the world, in every country, whether it be great or small. May we someday have a world where stories like this do not have to be written because this scenario does not exist, and yes, you have a soul.)