I sit down on the bed and start thumbing through. I notice the poems are dated and I’m curious to read her last few entries.
The last poem is dated from two days ago: the day before I came to Rochester. But the notebook was stuffed down amongst the books like it had been there for some time. It dawns on me that she’s hiding it.
I begin to read the unnamed poem.
Thunder rolls across the dark sky.
The ominous sound vibrates in my bones.
Rain hits the window and matches my own tears.
Angry and sharp.
Stroms surround me from within and without.
Escaping them sits beyond my reach.
I stop after the three verses and let their meaning sink in. Is she writing from her heart or talent? Even in the short time I’ve known her, I believe her talent and heart will combine as one in her writing. The impact of her seeking spirit flows on the page. I fear she has never mourned her mother’s death. Maybe she is beginning to come out of the haze of her life’s tragedy. With no family to lean on, processing the loss has to be difficult. James rules over her with his iron-fisted control, which prevents her from healing. This poem speaks of a trapped soul—hers.
I read the journal of poems and envision Harlow as a beautiful young woman with a stunning depth of emotions, searching for who she is in the world. Trying to break out of what cards she has been dealt in life’s non-discriminating game. By fate, she was born to a single mother. From the looks of her clothes, they didn’t have too many pennies to spare.
She needs time to spread her wings and find her passions, because they are lying dormant and untapped inside her. She writes prose that works my emotions. A talent one inherits as a gift. With the proper education, she could become a true writer. Who knows where her gifts could take her. If she stays here, locked away under James’ suffocating hold, she’ll wither away before she turns twenty-five.
I think of New York City and the writer friends I’ve seen thrive there. The city fosters writing by breeding stories and dreams. It’s like the streets can talk. If I bring her back home with me, she could enter college and work on her talents. The thought is fleeting and impossible, but I can’t shake the idea.
I close my eyes at the thought and picture Harlow a few years from now. I see her carrying a sad heaviness on her angelic face like she is aimlessly living her life. Something inside me twists knowing her fate might even be worse. Without a dream and future, I fear this beautiful, poetic side of her will die.
I set the book aside and crawl under the soft white covers of the bed. Somehow, my mind frees itself from the day’s worries about Harlow, but my dreams are filled with her.
Before I wake up, I’m dreaming of a burning house. Smoke clouds the dark night, but flames leap from a second story window. I hear a woman screaming and on instinct, I run inside to follow the sound.
Once I plunge through the smoke in the dark foyer, I see Harlow lying crumpled on the floor of a metal barred cage.
“Harlow, I’m here!” I shout as the wood crackles and snaps while being consumed by the fire.
I crouch down to breath cleaner air and rattle the cage’s door to open it. It doesn’t move an inch. I glance up and see a closed padlock guarding the door. I grab a hold of the lock and pull, hoping it comes free, but it stays locked like a vault. Adrenaline and fear pump through my body. I have no idea how to save her.
“Help me, Sin,” Harlow cries out in my dream. She coughs between desperate gasps for air. Time presses me to rescue her, but how do I break through the metal and save her?
My friend Bentley would know how to pick the lock. His family has owned a safe and lock company for generations. He is the heir to the multi-national corporation, but he is likely fucking some random pick-up in my apartment.
“Do you have any idea where the key is?” I reach through the bars and bring Harlow close to me. Her body appears limp and her eyes are starting to flutter. I have seconds before she goes unconscious in my hands.
“You,” she mumbles, “have the key.” Her eyes shutter closed. I lift my head and yell into the smoky air. She’ll die if I don’t get her out of this cage. Hell, we’ll both die, because I’ll never leave her.
I dig into my pocket to pull out a keychain. The only thing I feel is a long piece of metal. I bring it into view and realize it’s a skeleton key—perfect for a padlock.
I lay Harlow back down on the floor and release her. I scoot toward the lock and place the key inside the hole. After a few turns, it springs open and I reach inside the cage to drag Harlow from the smoke and flames.
I carry her outside and collapse on the damp grass. The coolness soothes away the heat from my skin. I move a piece of golden hair from Harlow’s face and will her to wake up. Her eyes flutter like before, and then she opens them wide to stare right into my mine. Her intense gaze brings me some relief.