Part 1Forgotten In The Cold Cellar

The holidays were over. My parents were packing the SUV, ready to head back to the city for work. My little brother, Beau, had already claimed the front passenger seat, looking like a little king.

I wanted to go, too. I needed to go. But no matter how hard I pulled at the door handle, it wouldn’t budge. It was locked tight.

As the engine roared to life and the car began to crawl forward, panic seized me. I threw myself in front of the hood, screaming until my throat felt raw. "Why does he get to go? Why not me?"

I pounded on the tinted glass, desperate for a glance, a sign. Finally, Mom turned her head. She didn’t unlock the door. Instead, she pulled out her phone and aimed the camera at me.

"Look at her," she muttered, her voice muffled by the glass, likely recording a video for her followers. "She’s old enough to know better. If we don’t go work, how is she going to eat? How is she going to have nice clothes?"

She caught my breakdown on screen, then turned back to the road. I was gasping for air, sobbing so hard I couldn’t stand. A small crowd of neighbors and relatives had gathered to watch the spectacle.

"Just take her," a cousin shouted. "What’s one more? You’ve got the space."

Suddenly, a pair of rough hands lifted me off the ground. It was Dad. He stepped out of the car for a moment, wiping the tears from my cheeks with a thumb that smelled of tobacco and gasoline.

"Hey, hey, princess. Stop the waterworks," he whispered. "Tell you what, let’s play a game. Hide-and-seek. If you can hide so well that we can’t find you, we’ll take you with us. Deal?"

* * *

I nodded frantically, my heart hammering against my ribs.

I turned and ran, my mind racing for the perfect spot. I found it—the old root cellar behind the shed. It was a heavy wooden hatch set into the frozen earth.

I climbed down into the dark. It was freezing and smelled of damp soil and rotting potatoes, but my chest felt warm. If I just stayed quiet, if I won this game, I’d be with them. I wouldn’t have to stay here anymore.

Last year, they left only with Beau, too. But they promised—next year, we promise.

Grandma and Grandpa had smiled then, looking like the kind grandparents in a picture book, promising they’d take such good care of me. But the second my parents’ car rounded the bend at the end of the gravel road, Grandpa’s smile vanished.

"They don’t want you, girl," he’d chuckled, lighting a cigarette.

"Liar!" I’d screamed, biting back tears. "Mom and Dad love me!"

Grandma didn’t say a word. She just grabbed my long braids and dragged me into the kitchen. She took the heavy kitchen shears and hacked my hair off right there.

When I looked in the mirror, my head looked like a jagged, ruined field after a harvest. I touched the uneven stubble, my hands shaking. My hair was the one thing Mom always loved. Every time she visited, she’d brush it for hours, telling me how beautiful and dark it was.

And now it was gone. I hadn’t protected the one thing she liked about me.

Grandma tucked ten dollars into her pocket—the money she’d get from the local wig-maker for the hair. "Easier to keep clean this way," she snapped. "And stop that crying. You're crying away all the luck in this house."

I didn’t cry after that. Not out loud. I’d just let my shoulders shake in silence.

The kids at school started calling me "Rat-head." I learned to run fast so they couldn’t catch me. I told myself I didn’t care. But at night, curled under a thin, moth-eaten quilt, I’d rub those jagged ends of hair and my nose would sting. I’d bury my face in the pillow so the sound wouldn't escape, even as the tears soaked into the old cotton.

But today was different. Today, I was leaving. No one would call me names ever again. Mom would brush my hair, and we’d let it grow long together.

I huddled in the corner of the cellar, hugging my knees, holding my breath. I had counted to a hundred three times over by now.

I was getting anxious, but I told myself to wait. They were looking for me. They had to be. They were probably searching the barn, or the attic, taking the game seriously.

Then, through the heavy wooden door above me, I heard the sound of an engine turning over.

I froze. No. That’s not right.