The Devil’s Den

I resent that dusty, smoky room; the loft that held my soul above its hatch. The devil's den, where a part of my soul still remains.

When I am asleep, my younger self hammers on the walls of my mind, as she is still in the walls of that loft, begging me to release her, begging me to acknowledge her.

I would spend hours in the front of the mirror, perfecting my face, searching for a glimmer of recognition and self worth in my own eyes.

I adhered to my schedule, arriving at the expected time each day, climbing the steps to that loft hatch with refreshed hope.

As I opened it, the smoke would sting my eyes and I would be greeted by silence.

No hugs, no kisses, no warm welcome here...just a body in a bed, waiting to be woken up to get ready for the night shift.

I would try to stir him but he would grunt and roll over. I would turn on the TV. I knew the exact time each programme started and which channel.

I would sit alone, wishing he would care enough to just open his eyes.

I left once...I was so fed up of the devil's den which consumed the precious hours of my life.

He woke up late for work, realising I wasn't there. He phoned me and told me not to bother coming down the next night. He demanded to know why I had left, made me feel guilty for not waking him up.

And I apologised, I told him I would be there the next night and that I was sorry and I begged the devil to let me return to his hell.

For I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to retrieve that part of my soul,  which remained in the walls. I wouldn't be complete and I wouldn't be my full self.

That disappointed, lonely girl would be left there, screaming to get out, hammering on the walls of my mind, as she still does during the night...