I don’t know what time it is when I wake up. A bit of gray light is coming through the glass blocks. I stare up at the place where I’ve been stabbing the grout, and I see something that makes me sit up and rub my eyes. The longer I look, the more certain I am. There’s a sliver of brighter light between two of the glass blocks. Maybe it’s moonlight. Maybe it’s light from a streetlamp. It doesn’t matter. I lie down and watch the stripe of light get brighter and brighter. The sun must be coming up. I eat an apple and a peanut butter sandwich, washed down with mango juice.
Then I take all the bras from the pile of fresh clothing and tie them into one long rope. I try not to think about the fact that whoever locked me up knows the kind of bra I wear and my size. At the end of the bra-rope I tie a pair of yoga pants. Then, just to be on the safe side, I sit down to write what I hope is my last essay. It’s going to be a three-in-one. Pride, lust, gluttony.
Pride goeth before a fall. My gramma, Dad’s mom, used to say that to me. When I was little, I thought she meant a real fall—like off a ladder or something. It took me awhile to figure out that she wasn’t talking about being proud of, say, scoring a goal in soccer. Or getting an A on a test. She was talking about being arrogant or boastful about it. And guess what? She was right. I found out the hard way in grade seven. I won a dance competition and got on TV. And I made sure everyone knew about it. And then all the girls I danced with stopped talking to me. And the girls at school called me a stuck-up bitch and a whore, among other things. They said I was sleeping with my lesbian dance teacher. In grade seven! To be honest, falling off a ladder would have hurt less. Anyway, I learned to shut up about stuff I do well. But it’s weird—I still have a rep for being a bitch and a slut, even though I don’t go around bragging anymore. And Eric still has a rep for being violent. I wonder how long that will last.
Speaking of Eric, I might as well get lust out of the way. Was it lust that made me want him? Maybe. Jason was so lame. Always crying afterward. And moaning my name. And telling me how much he loved me and how he’d do anything for me. Except figure out how to last more than three minutes. Standing next to Eric made the hairs stand up on my arms. Still does. That’s all I have to say, other than I’m not on board with lust being a sin.
And gluttony? Well, it’s disgusting, for sure. I mean, look at how many obese people there are. But a sin? There a lot worse things than stuffing yourself with Big Macs or KFC. Like hurting an animal or killing a child. Or just not caring about anything. What’s that called? Apathy. That’s a bad one. So here’s my updated list of the Seven Deadly Sins:
1. Murder/violence
2. Hurting animals or children
3. Wrecking the environment
4. Greed
5. War
6. Gossip/trash-talking
7. Apathy about any of the above
Notice that only one—greed—was on the original list. That’s because being greedy for wealth and power can lead to all the other things on my list.
I put the pen down and flex my fingers. Still sore. So are my shoulders, my back, my legs. I fold the paper up and “mail” it through the slot. I write DAY 5 on the wall. Next to it I draw a fat dude with an erection, falling off a ladder. Three sins in one. It makes me laugh. Writing on walls is awesome. It’s like being three again. When I get out of here, I’m going to paint one of the walls in my room with that chalkboard paint. Then I can write on the walls all the time.
I tuck the Sharpie into my bra and tie my bra-rope around my waist before I climb the tower for what I hope is the last time. When I get close to the glass blocks, I feel something I haven’t felt in days—fresh air on my face. It feels amazing, and it smells slightly like...water. And beer. The lake. I’m near the brewery at the end of the lake. I attack the grout like a maniac. Sweat pours down my face and back. My arm feels like it’s going to fall off, but I keep going. The grout is coming away quickly now. Two sides of the block are free, then the third. I pull the Sharpie out of my bra. I hope it will write on glass. It does. I write in block letters LOOK UP and then my name, AMY LESSARD.
Then I get to work on the fourth side of the block. When I can see sunlight all the way around the block, I start to shove it out. I scream and swear at it as if it is my captor. “Bastard! Asshole! Jerk-off!” At last it starts to move. Slowly. Really slowly. When I get it to the edge, I stop pushing and tie my bra-rope to my toilet rod. I’m ready. Or as ready as I can be. I give one last shove to the glass block and it falls away, leaving me a small window. Way too small to climb out of, but not too small to get my hand and arm out. I inch closer to the window and shove the toilet rod out. The rope dangles from it and just before I start to scream, I hear the most beautiful sound in the world—the glass block hitting something and, a second later, a car alarm going off. I wave my bra-flag and scream, “Up here! Up here! Up here! Amy Lessard! Up here!”
I scream until the car alarm stops. And then I scream some more. I wave my bra-flag. I cry. And then I hear a new sound. Footsteps, followed by someone banging on the door and calling my name. There’s a scuffle, and suddenly the door bursts open. I sink to my knees on the mattress, sobbing. It’s over.