15
It’s dark in there, almost too dark to see. I open the cellar door a little wider, peeking inside. My eight-year-old arms shake from the force of holding the door open even this much.
“Mama?” I call out, my eyes adjusting. I can just make out the damp cellar steps, leading down into blackness. “Mama, are you down there?”
With all the strength I can muster, I shove the door. It tips away, slamming open with a resounding thud. Glancing around nervously, I hope that my older brothers don’t hear the sound.
Then again, I could probably be abducted right now, and they wouldn’t know. They’re all glued to the TV, watching each other try to beat some character in a video game. I’ve been told to piss off repeatedly, so I am.
Since I don’t know exactly what piss off means, I’m left to my own
