Fear Itself

I was eight and a half when I found the entrance to the attic.

It was nothing more than a string. White and coarse, it dangled above me; a plastic pull hung fastened at the bottom, almost inviting me to pull it. My father was gone for the day. I easily could have just tugged it down. It could poke around the attic, and the attic was the one place in the house I hadn’t broken into so, so I figured why not? I formed a fist around the plastic end and pulled hard in one swift motion. A piece of the ceiling lowered, revealing a set of stairs for me to climb up. I stared in awe for a moment, and my heart beat rigorously in my chest.

Brushing off my hesitations and concerns, I carefully began to climb the staircase. A few steps later, my head entered the darkness of the attic. The only light offered to me was the bit of sunlight spilling from a nearby window, the one that looked down at our front steps and the surrounding gate. The attic was old, dusty, and cluttered with cardboard boxes. I wasn’t entirely sure what was kept up here; I knew that my father kept some of my clothes up here, and we switched boxes when the seasons changed, so I could have my sweaters when it started to get cold out.

I took the last couple steps, and my bare feet finally landed against the wooden floor. The wood didn’t feel the same as the smooth, polished wood on the floor my bedroom. This wood was rough; if I stepped in the wrong spot, it stung my heels. I slowly looked around, scanning, perusing, and taking everything in. Boxes upon boxes were stacked around me, but one stuck out in particular.

It was smaller than the rest, and it sat alone, basking in the sunlight pouring in from outside. The top had been pried open, inviting me to peek inside, or perhaps somebody else had already done so. There was no writing on this box, not like most of the ones surrounding, all labeled, all serving some kind of purpose. The outside of this box was barren, undesignated, and already opened. My curiosity once again got the better of me, and I approached the box with a sense of wonder I’d never experienced before. There was something exhilarating about finding this box, knowing I wasn’t even supposed to be up here.

I kneeled in front of it, and bits of dust drifted up, visible in the sunlight. Inside, I found a lot of useless junk, or at least things that appeared useless to me at the time. There was a small rag doll that had seen better days, no longer decorated with painted-on freckles but with dust. Aside from this, I found a wrist watch that seemed to be missing it’s hands. My fingers traced the rim of a small, white dish with a rabbit painted in the center. Coins were scattered around the bottom of the box, spilling from a coin purse tied to the edge of a rusted, old blade. An overturned ink bottle sat in the corner, staining the cardboard a sun-faded black. Near this rested a a jar, perhaps once used to hold jam or something similar, now cleaned out and filled with dried up, shriveled rose petals. Above the mess sat a Bible, and on top of this, sat a gold ring that appeared to once have luster but probably succumbed to age and sun damage.

A brown, leather cover caught my eye from just behind the box. I reached over, grabbing the spine of a book in my right hand. Carefully, I pulled it onto my lap. No dust adorned the cover, and I wondered if perhaps my father had been looking through this box. There were no words on the front, but it was thick and heavy. I gently opened the cover, and I was assaulted with photographs, so many photographs. I didn’t know who they were of, except for perhaps my mother and father. I recognized my father in almost every photograph I saw of him. My mother’s red hair was a good identifier, but there were some people I didn’t recognize: a man who was consistently wearing a blazer and bow tie, a man who never smiled, and a young girl with light hair and clear eyes who held some resemblance to my father.

I flipped through these photos for some time, trying to make sense of everything: the happy photos of my mother and father, the mysterious young girl, my mother’s two friends, the police box she seemed to frequent, and the pictures of me as an infant. Everyone looked so happy. I had already removed a photo I decided I liked: my mother standing with the man with the bow tie and the man who never smiled standing outside of a red police box. An avenue sign stood in the background that read “Bond Street.” My mother looked happy in this photo, so I decided I would take it. I nearly closed the photo album when one last photo caused me to keep it open.

There was a boy, maybe somewhere from 11 to 13 years old. He had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and a wide grin. A baby was settled in his arms, sleeping soundly. It must have been me, I reasoned. I didn’t recall seeing any other babies throughout the photo album, but I also didn’t recall ever seeing this little boy. I certainly didn’t remember seeing the inside of this particular flat, which was in horrible condition: peeling wallpaper, splitting wood paneling, and a ceiling stained a faint yellow.

I removed the picture from it’s plastic sleeve for a better look at it, but no matter how close I held it to my face, I didn’t notice anything knew. Who was the boy? Was he still alive? Where did he live? Questions raced through my mind at a mile a minute. I sat the picture on top of the picture of my mother with her friends. I closed the album and set it back where it once sat; I did my best to return the box to it’s previous state. Clutching the pictures in my hand, I made my exit from the the attic, letting the stairs disappear back into the ceiling.

I hid the picture of my mom in the top drawer of my dresser. The other photo, the one of the boy and me, I took to the window with me. I peeked through the curtain, watching the faces and glancing back to the boy’s face, but none of them bore any resemblance. The boy’s identity was something that would continue to bother me for days, and it kept me watching out the window diligently while I strummed my prized ukelele, scanning the sea of faces for my first and only friend.