A Childhood Memory

There is very little I can remember before the age of thirteen, when I started keeping a daily journal with almost religious fervor. If I try hard I can remember facts pretty well - that I got up at six thirty in the morning to catch the bus at seven twenty-five, that my brother was in the same school as I during the first two grades, that I was in a fight in third grade. But it's all just bits and flashes. Like I'm remembering a dream that fades away even as I try to catch it.

There's one memory from when I was nine that might fit the subject of being in a strange place. I don't think that at the time, I considered that place "strange" - it was the home of one of my best friends, Leah. I probably went there all the time, had sleepovers with her every week, ate meals with her family - but I can't remember any of that. I have just a few flashes of memory from that house - the dinner table, set for a dozen; the baby hamsters that Leah showed me; a dark room and a crack of light under the door.

The first two memories are innocent enough, but as I remember them, there seems something implicitly wrong about them. The table looks forbidding. Her father is sitting at the end of the table and I cannot remember his face. The hamsters are upstairs, but Leah brings them down - upstairs is bad. Leah's room is upstairs and there is something bad in that room. I feel like a chained animal in that house. Like a chained animal watched by a monster that's about to gobble it up.

The third memory is of her room. It's not my room and I can feel it. No amount of pretending will make this bed my bed. I'm not at home and I am alone. Leah is sleeping in the bed above me but I am alone. This is not my family. That isn't my mother across the hallway. I'm awake in the dark and I'm not home and I'm scared.

This is what I remember.

I remember I was wearing my pink nightgown, the one with the teddy bears dancing across it. I remember the cold air on my bare legs as the blanket was lifted. I remember being small. I remember his hand was big and hot and heavy over my mouth. He didn't need to cover my mouth - he should've known I wouldn't scream. Screaming would make it real. Screaming would cut through the darkness and it would wake Leah up, it would wake everyone up, and it would be real and everyone would know. I wouldn't have screamed.

Mostly I remember the crack of light under the door. That shadow that crosses it, when someone passes by it, or stops before it. I remember watching that crack. I don't remember seeing anything but that crack of light. I don't know if it was too dark to see anything or if I kept my eyes closed and only saw that light, burning through my eyelids. It's the crack that's important. I can't remember much. Maybe I made up the rest of it. I can't remember if I dreamt it or if it really happened. I don't know. Maybe I don't want to know. But I remember the crack. I remember that thin line of light. That I remember.

During class a couple hours ago, we were told to write about a childhood memory of a departure or of being in a strange/unfamiliar place. I tried and tried and could not remember a single thing from my childhood that I could possibly write more than a sentence about. Except this. I might be reading it aloud in class tomorrow so any feedback is appreciated. High ratings are appreciated, too!