Fear Itself

The window became my favorite spot in the whole house. I spent entire days on that window sill, though it could easily be attributed to my newfound love of people-watching. Searching for the faces in my mother’s photo album was consuming me. I didn’t want to do anything. The idea that perhaps there were people out there that knew me was inspiring, and it made me hopeful. I hoped that maybe one day, one would see me from the window and rescue me from a life of solitude, so I continued to sit there with the curtains drawn, in plain sight, even though my father made it quite clear that my curtains were not to be opened under any circumstances. The window was to remain shut and locked.

The rules never stopped me before, though the window was a much bigger deal than not having food in my room or not putting my clothes in the laundry basket. I was ten years old now, and the fact that my father didn’t want the window exposed seemed awfully suspicious to me: like he didn’t want me seeing out… or like he didn’t want anyone seeing in.

But I couldn’t keep myself away. People-watching quickly made me realize that I could see everything from my window: men, women, day, night, the sun, the moon, the stars, and the changing colors of the fall. I saw the leaves drop off at the first sign of winter, and for the past couple of days, I had been seeing the first winter snow, and I was in love with the beauty. The way the snow covered the city made things seem tranquil, at least from my window.

I wondered what it felt like. I wanted to know what frost would feel like on my skin, how the ice would feel on my finger tips. Certainly, my father wouldn’t mind if popped outside for just a moment, at least I couldn’t see why. I slid off the window sill and pulled my curtains shut, tossing my ukelele on the bed. It landed with a quiet thud on the comforter as I made my way downstairs, cautious with each and every step. The sound of my father’s feet shuffling across the kitchen tiles made my breath catch in my throat. It was almost enough to make me stop, and my hand clutched the railing beside me. This was no time to stop. Where would I get if I couldn’t even ask?

Pushing on, I continued down the stairs. “Daddy?” I called as I quietly entered the kitchen. He stood at the cupboard with his back to me, but he turned his head over his shoulder to smile at me.

“Dinner will be ready soon, Tali,” he told me, and he turned back to the stove.

I started to shake my head. “That’s not what I wanted,” I responded meekly, shyly, wringing my trembling hands.

Taken a back, he turned to me, giving me his full attention. “What is it?” he asked, eyebrows raised, a little surprised that I wasn’t coming to inquire about dinner like I normally did. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, I just—“ my eyes drifted over in the direction of the sliding glass door, the curtain cracked just enough to expose the blanket of snow waiting outside. “I um…”

My father saw me glancing, and the anticipation in his face vanished, leaving a cold, harsh look in it’s stead. “No,” he interjected. He quickly turned back to the stove, tending to dinner again.

“Dad, I didn’t even ask,” I argued, snapping my head to him, now only seeing the back of his head. I sighed faintly.

“No, but I know what you were going to ask me, and the answer is no,” he said coldly.

“But Dad—“

“No, Thalia.”

“Dad.”

“Thalia, the answer is no!” he snapped, raising his voice and turning back to me, eyes wide with exasperation.

I was suddenly struck with defeat, and I couldn’t fight it from my face. My eyebrows dropped, as did my gaze, and my eyes now scanned the floor. I didn’t understand. Why couldn’t I just poke my head outside for two seconds? Or even just one finger? I just wanted to feel it, even just for a few seconds, but apparently, cracking the back door was just too much, and as my father began to explain that dinner would be ready in about twenty minutes, my anger was surging, and I had to restrain myself and bite my tongue.

“I’m not even hungry anymore. Don’t bother,” I huffed, and I stormed back up the stairs and into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.

I don’t know how long I sat there on the window sill, staring outside longingly. I yearned to open the window, to just slide my hand outside for a moment and catch a snowflake. Suddenly filled with apathy as to whether or not my father wanted me to go outside, I reached my right hand up to unlock the window. I stepped back onto the floor, and just as my fingers gripped the bottom of the window pane, there was a knocking on my door.

“What?” I asked with a bit of a snap in my voice. I didn’t mean it, not really; I just couldn’t keep the bitter taste out of my mouth.

“I just thought that…” my father began to say as he creaked the door open, sliding into my room. “…Since you can’t go outside, I’d let you see it for yourself,” he continued, nodding to the small, plastic cup full of snow clutched in his right hand. “I’ll just leave it here.” He set the cup down on my dresser, and he offered a soft, uneasy smile.

“Thanks, Dad,” I replied, the tension in my shoulders lifting as I faked a smile for him.

“There’s a plate in the microwave if you’re hungry,” my father added just before leaving, closing the door behind him.

Truth be told, I wasn’t hungry. I didn’t think I would be hungry for the rest of the night, and as soon as my father had gone, I sat on the edge of bed, hid my face in my hands, and began to sob as quietly as I could. When I finally lifted my eyes, I noticed that the snow was beginning to melt, and as I cried, I watched it condensate and crack, finally settling in a small, clear puddle at the bottom.