Date: Thu, 16 Jul 1998 13:20:20 -0500 From: Phanny Subject: [WRITERS] SUB: CONTEST: The Hiding Place The Hiding Place It's dark under here. I shimmy closer to the wall, gathering clothes and assorted toys in front of me. I pull an old plate with food stuck on, along with last weeks dirty clothes in front of my face. Breathing heavy, I can hear the screams. . .and the footsteps, always the footsteps. "Where is she?" my stepfather rages and fear forces tears onto a dirty shirt stuck to my face. I pull my trembling hands to my chest and try not to breath too hard. The small bed, with topped with thin foam mattress, raises slightly with any movement. But it is my hiding place, and a good one, at least until he discovers it. But that won't be for a while. He can't find anything when he is in a blind rage. Underneath where I hide, the cheap wood that holds the bed springs together are bent and mangled, a piece protruding halfway to the floor. The sharp edge cuts into my back as I lay perfectly still on my stomach. The pain from the scrape when I slid into my hiding place is nothing compared to the pain I will feel if he finds me. Right now, I feel nothing but fear; but fear is the best painkiller. I listen for his footsteps. Nothing. Just the whooshing sound of the strap flying through the air, and I know from the screams he is beating my brother in another room. I am safe. For the moment. My one foot high by three foot wide safe haven is cluttered with dirty clothes, dishes, and assorted parts to toys I've forgotten I had. Being the littlest, no one else could fit under there but me. My mother gave up a long time ago trying to make me clean under that bed. She doesn't know why I keep it so filthy. If I cleaned it, he could find me. Then again, maybe she does know. One time after he left, she came down the hallway, stopping in each room to comfort beaten children and searched for me for an hour before I came out. In my room, she glanced toward my bed before giving me a knowing look. She never spoke of it again. I can hear my brother and sisters sobbing and the footsteps are getting louder. I glance down at my feet and realize they are not covered. With my toes, I fish for a wadded up towel, struggling in one movement to smooth it out and cover my exposed feet. Unable to do so, I reach down with my hand, barely grabbing it with fingertips. And when I do, the Monopoly game lying sideways against my calf falls forward, the lid flying open, contents spilling halfway out of my hiding place. The footsteps pause right outside my bedroom door. Horrified at the sound of feet shuffling in my room, I open my eyes slightly and see shoes . . . his shoes, topped by the ruffle of my bedspread. I draw in a deep breath, tears wetting the carpet. Suddenly, the ruffle is snatched up and a hand grabs toward my face, swiping dangerously close to my shoulder. It grabs a set of clacker balls and throws then to the side, hitting my fingers. I wince, but dare not make a sound. Knocking toys and clothes out of the way, the hand haphazardly feels around for the child that got away. The child with the perfect hiding place.