Pinocchio Promised

         Breaking free of the chains bound to his wrists five years was the easy part.

           Escaping from prison is a funny thing. You plan secrets with your fellow inmates, all of you bitter with aged enmity, script a plan to overwhelm the guards, disarm them, and fight your way to freedom. Escaping two ever-watchful parents that sequestered you according to their definition of your own good, though? That was different.

           You didn’t have other allies, for starters. No one was near you living the day-in and day-out of the same situation. No one could listen to your pain and validate you. No one could coordinate a rebellion against the guards.

           No one could take their weapons and use them against them.

           It was just you. Alone. Trapped in the wilderness of the house. The guards patrolled the halls at irregular intervals. And that wasn’t when they spent their time arguing with each other.

           “You did this to me!”

           “No, you did that to me!”

           Shut up. It’s a wonder they ever married.

           But today, right now, the chains were on the floor, and he wanted to flee.

           Check that. He needed to flee. Stan rubbed his wrists, red, swollen, and sore from all the times he tried to escape with brute force. It turns out that skin and bones are no match for iron. Iron chains and iron screws fastened to the wall. He peered over at the door on the other end of the dungeon cell, standing between him and freedom.

           He took several long breaths. There was a mess on the floor, most of which were toys. He could stop to play with them now that he was free. He’d enjoy playing with all the things that were used to hurt him. “See this,” one of his parents would say. It didn’t matter which because both had. They shoved a wooden Pinocchio doll in his face, stabbing him under his eye with its pointed nose. He thought his eye might burst from the pressure. “This is for good boys. That’s not you.” They swung it at him and broke its head on his ribs. They replaced it with a new one, sitting still on the bookstand across his bed, to serve as his reminder that he didn’t deserve to play with it. The splintered head and body of the previous Pinocchio lay at his feet beside the irons.

           Yet, the temptation was not enough to satiate his appetite. Sure, he could play with it, even for one minute, and stay locked up in the dungeon. Then, if his parents ever injured him with it again, he’d always have that one minute of fun to bring him peace and sanity. But what was one minute against infinite possible minutes?

           Nothing, that’s what.

           Stan crawled along the carpet. He was careful because, despite the carpet on this half of the room, the floor was prone to creaking. He pressed his hand forward, one at a time, testing the sounds in the floor with each step. He reached for the doll, stretching as far as he could to reach the top of the bookshelf, and yanked Pinocchio down by its toes.

           Stan smiled as he held the doll in his little hands. He cupped Pinocchio’s head and combed his painted hair behind its ears to straighten it. He hugged Pinocchio, tears rolling down his cheeks. That was the first hug ever experienced by either. “Let’s escape together and be friends forever,” he said, the idea popping fresh into his mind. It might help him, after all, to have a friend.

           “I promise,” he imagined Pinocchio responding.

           There. Their friendship was sworn by oath.

           Stan cradled Pinocchio under his arm and turned to face the door. He navigated around avenues of other broken toys, none of whom as innocent looking as Pino.

           He stopped at the metal barrier in the floor. He poked at it, and it was colder than the irons. The metal bar separated the carpeted floor from the wooden floor. Stan swallowed a lump in his throat. The real challenge began now.

           He slung Pino over his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his neck. “Hold on tight,” he whispered.

           Stan pressed his hand onto the wooden floor, taking his first step over the border. Crrreeaaaak. He yanked his hand back. He raised his ears and listened for sounds emanating from the luxury rooms around him and from downstairs. He grabbed onto Pino’s hands and held as tight as he could.

           Several minutes, perhaps an hour, passed before enough silence proved sufficient to try his luck on another section of the hardwood floor. He crawled to his right and pressed his hip against the wall. He extended his hand, then exhaled a long breath of relief when nothing creaked. He hoped the wall was sturdy enough to support him and, to ensure it was, he pressed his knees together, narrowing his body. Hold on tight, Pino!

           Stan was on all fours next to the door when he cleared the wood floor. He pushed his ear against it, listening again for any sounds that might emanate outside. He felt a cold draft one his little hands, blowing inside from the gap between the floor and the door. He lay down and peeked out, deciding to both watch and listen.

           Voices.

           There were voices downstairs.

           He guessed they were coming from the kitchen. What time was it? It didn’t matter. His parents were most likely eating if they were in the kitchen. When was the last time he ate? He didn’t know, but he knew it wasn’t today.

           The good news was that his parents were far enough away that he could open the door and peek into the hall without issue. He swallowed the next lump in his throat, his breakfast, lunch, and dinner that day. Freedom was sweeter and more filling than any meal. He reached for the knob and turned.

           Unlocked!

           He turned his wrist and pulled. The door inched open, providing Stan a glimpse of that freedom. He’d never been this far. There were carpeted floors, designed in geometries and colors other than spotted blood stains. He sniffed, smelling scents of citrus and shampoo used to clean the floor. The rot of flayed skin filled his palette behind him.

           There was another smell in the air, though. It wasn’t sweet like the carpet, but hot and travelling up the stairs.

           Yes, they were definitely in the kitchen. He wondered what they were cooking. He guided the door open, not a lot, but just enough for his body to squeeze through, then reached up and closed it. Then, no one would know he left! He crawled further down the hall, ignoring the throw pillows, the fresh linens, and the curtains hanging from the canopy in the bedroom behind him. He followed the smell of meats in the air, as well as apples and cinnamon. He crawled to the edge of the stairs and looked down.

           He saw their shadows. Their black likenesses were moving, disappearing, and reappearing on the while tiled kitchen floor. He snickered. The contrast would make them easy to track. And, his confidence grew when he heard silverware chiming against porcelain plates. He grabbed Pino’s hands and held him, protecting him from slipping off his shoulders.

           Stan stared several feet down the stairs below. The bottommost would be toughest because that was where it intersected with the wall. His parents would be waiting on the other side. He needed to find an angle in which to move so they would not see him crawling around.

           He crawled to the wall, having learned his lesson from escaping the cell, and reached down. But he yanked his hand back. He would have to put his weight forward to progress down each stair, and that meant there was a risk he might fall. How was he going to get through this?

           He looked at Pino over his shoulder. Any suggestions?

           Pino had an idea. Sit upwards and lift yourself down.

           Bingo!

           The first ten steps down were easy. He sat there for awhile, his feet planted on the eleventh so they didn’t dangle beyond the view of the wall, and thought. What now?

           The smell in the kitchen was dense here. Temptation struck Stan again, promising him a bite of a fresh meal. The meals he got were always cold, sometimes molded. Imagine the thought of something hot and spicy filling your taste buds. Yum! Then, he would have two experiences he could hoard over his parents.

           He forced his eyes shut and turned away from the kitchen. There was a handrail there, gates running down to meet the steps in which they were buried.

           He didn’t need to ask Pino what to do next.

           He pushed himself up and shifted left, away from the wall and next to the railing. The spacing between each rail was large enough for him to squeeze his head through. The floor on the other side was about one foot down. He grabbed Pino, moving him slow enough that his swinging legs would not jingle together, and placed him on the carpeted floor below.

           He took the next step down, but rather than revealing himself beyond the wall, he squeezed through the gate. He pressed hard onto the floor, so happy something could support him. The floor was superior to his parents in that regard. He inhaled a deep breath, flattened his tummy, then pushed his shoulder, head, and opposite shoulder through. He lifted his other leg, stepped down, and resumed his crawling posture. He was free!

           He retrieved Pino, holding his arms and legs now. I’m sorry, he thought, reflecting on his memories. You deserve better. He followed the carpet, away from the kitchen, and found a second door. But this one had a window.

           A window revealing a bright, sunny day outside.

           Excitement exploded in Stan. His heart raced against his little chest. What would he do once he was outside? Would he ask for food? Would he smell flowers for the first time? Would he bask in sunlight for the first time too? A better idea occurred to him.

           He would find and ask for help.

           Where it was didn’t really matter. So, he scurried in silence along the carpet, and reached the top of the last staircase. All he needed to do at the bottom was open the lock and leave. He should be able to succeed, taking precautions against making sounds on the floor.

           He was a pro at scaling walls now, though, so he perched up against the top stair and lifted himself down one at a time. Almost there. He repeated the mantra with each step. Almost there. Almost there. Almost. There. He peeked through the window, now that he was near the bottom, and saw the sun for the first time, giving light to the world outside his dungeon with radiant rays. He went down another step. Almost there.

           He heard plates stacking one on the other from the kitchen. Chairs dragged along the tiles and footsteps clapped on the floor. He stopped to listen, hearing running water.

           He went down another step. Now he really was almost there.

           “What are you doing out of your chains!?” asked an angry voice.

           He didn’t respond. He had come too far. He went down another step, but by that point, he heard heavy feet racing down after him. Stan reached for the doorknob. He grabbed onto it, twisted, and pulled.

           Locked.

           He turned the dial and tried his luck again.

           Two big hands grabbed at his ankles, tugging on him with all their might. He had no choice but to let go of Pino to flee. Pino fell and bounced hard onto the foyer floor with a loud thud. Stan grabbed the doorknob with both hands, fighting against the hands tugging at his legs.

           “Okay, fine,” the voice said, angrier than before.

           They released Stan’s legs. Wow! They were letting him go.

           He opened the door and stepped around it as it opened. But that was when he felt something strike his shoulder with brute force.

           He fell, crashing onto the floor, and saw Pino’s separated head resting on the floor next to him. He crawled for the fresh air right in front of him, extending his arm, but the hands grabbed his ankles and yanked him away again. He screamed, but no one was around to hear him. The door slammed shut.

           “It’s dangerous outside,” they lied. He reached for the door again, but they locked it right away.

           Five years, as it turns out, was not long enough to complete his sentence. Without a trial, and without an opportunity to speak his voice, the hands dragged him back up the stairs, guaranteeing he would serve at least another twenty.