Raindrops stick to the glass of the window. The buildings in the distance blur together, creating a nebulous image, a backdrop to the sharp figure of the tumbling flood. Is it day six, or seven? Each morning blends into the next, until nothing remains but the stinging portrait in front of me. My mind can’t escape the view from my bedroom window. But it is not my bedroom window. The stiff mattress lines itself against the beige wall, parallel to the solid white desk that presses against the opposite side, barely leaving a path in between to cross through. The ceiling grazes the tip of my head when I stand, forcing me into an awkward crouch. Just as every other ceiling here does. And none of it is mine. The bed, the desk, the ceiling, and the pen – they belong to an 8-year-old girl. They belong to the girl who was bullied into relinquishing her favorite multi-colored pen. They belong to the girl who learned to read traditional Chinese characters through swollen eyes and a flood of tears. They belong to the girl who knew never to talk back, who cringed at her own words, who used silence as a shield. I am not that girl. I don’t even recognize that girl anymore. This was her apartment, her home.
Once a upon a time, the girl was happy. She ruled a vast kingdom, an empire of falling maple leaves, bright snow, and fierce raptors. One day, she woke up in a dark cabin. A tight leather rope gripped her waist, pulling her body into the rough seat. The rope pushed the pink ruffles of the girl’s skirt into her dress. The only light in the room was the vague illumination that glowed above her. Is that a cigarette? She frantically turned her head back and forth, praying for someone to take her back to her kingdom. A dark voice explained to her that she was going home, a new home. For the first time of many, she felt tears streaming down her cheeks. She closed her eyes once more, doing everything she could to push away the grief that shook her chest.
When she next opened her eyes, a harsh light burned her skin. As she searched for the source of the light, she found a perfectly rectangular screen staring back at her. The screen displayed a man with his black hair slicked back, a pair of glasses resting on his nose, and a lifelessly monotonous frown. There was no sound that followed the subtle movements of his mouth, but little symbols strolled through the bottom of the screen, changing with each shift in the man’s face. Startled, the girl looked around for anything, any indication of where she was. When her gaze suddenly landed on a giant glass pane that held the two walls together, she understood. Buildings stood shoulder to shoulder, struggling to hold their own spot. Layers stacked upon on another to form the towering structures that pushed against the limits of the sky. Through each window, the girl saw a family. Some sat together for dinner, some glared a screen like hers, and some looked out back to her. None, however, lived their lives without the careful gaze of the lives around them. The girl found a bottle next to her. She reached inside, grabbed one purple tablet labeled, “M,” and rested it on her tongue. Her head fell back into the black leather couch, and she drifted off.
Several days later, the girl walked out of her third Chinese class, with no more knowledge but around the same amount of confusion as she had after the first two. Her matching pigtails hung on her shoulders. She proceeded to a courtyard. Hundreds of others her age surrounded her, grazing her shoulders as they walked by. Each girl matched her white polo shirt and plaid skort, while the boys chose to switch the skort out for khaki shorts. The girl understood what she had to do. She walked up to the nearest classmate, another girl with the same long braids hanging down to her waist, and exposed her brilliantly white teeth into a wide smile. Hi I’m new what’s you’re name? The classmate gave her a look that the girl later classified as the ‘up-down,’ rolled her eyes, and shoved her way back through the crowds of students. The girl’s smile faltered. Perhaps the classmate hadn’t understood her. No one here seemed to. Perhaps the classmate had enough friends already. Everyone here did seem to have plenty. Perhaps—
This became her home. Somehow, the crowded the halls, the low ceilings, and the strange symbols took the honored title, filling the awkward hole in her chest. For these fourteen days, I am confined by the home of the girl. I am haunted by her ghost every waking moment. Her silence fills my mind during the day. Her wails keep me up at night. I am not that girl anymore. But that girl is still me.
About the Author:
Elena Lu
I’m Elena Lu, and I’m currently a sophomore at Deerfield Academy in Massachusetts. Numbers sum up my life most briefly: 16 years, 7 schools, 5 cities, and 4 countries. Through each rough transition, I am reintroduced to the world from a different lens, with art and literature often illustrating the differences and, more importantly, the inevitable mutual understandings. Therefore, I spend a lot of time with Latin and Greek literature, finding solace in the brilliance of a dissonant past. Right now, I am working on a podcast on racial inequality in classical literature in addition to spearheading the New Jersey branch of “Shielding Our Defenders”, a nonprofit initiative that donates masks to hospitals across the country.
The Big Duck 