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There was a triangular closet behind the stairs. The ceiling sloped down at a forty-five degree angle and met the floor at the rear. The base of the triangle was the opening. There was no door.
My parents used it as a toy closet. It was filled with a mountain of toys. A kid could scramble over the mountain easily, but it was near impossible for an adult. Toys would shift. Weight was unevenly supported. An adult could get crippled in the dark closet. There was a light socket. It never had a bulb.
When my father chased me — he used to get angry and chase me — I would run to the closet. I’d scale the mountain of toys and huddle way in the back. He’d wait outside and yell.
You’re going to get it when you come out, Tommy. I’m going to beat your fat ass.
Eventually, he got tired of waiting. He went back to watching television. I stayed there for hours. It was safety. It was my favorite spot in the house. He never got me there.
Sometimes — when I’m really panicked — I realize I never came out. I’m still in that deep dark clutter-filled triangle inside me. I’m lonely. I’m crying. I am starving for love. I want to come out of hiding. I want to embrace the world.
I’m trying, but I’m still so scared.
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