Obtaining the old, iron ladder from outside the house, one must be quiet to sneak it back in. I can only reach my sanctum with this key. Opening the wooden door to my room, I flinch at the sharp creek made by the plywood.
Unfolding the hinges, I level the steps flat against the closet wall. I wouldn’t have to go through this if the official ladder had been built in as planned. Careful not to lose footing, I climb to the very last step. The dry paint chips flatten against my toes as I reach as far back over the ledge as my height will allow.
With a carefully measured jump, I life myself onto the hidden floor above the closet. The ceiling fan swirls around casting shadows against the white top. Fully inside the safety of the plaster, I avoid the edge like a baby bird before it learns to fly.
According to my grandfather when he was adding my room and the porch to my mother’s house, my bed was attended to be up here. The holes for where the rails would have been were the only reminder of that promise. Unfortunately, mother didn’t agree with that plan and had most of the “Second floor” sealed off just as the attic was, leaving this narrow ledge.
I have the ability to lay here, but it would still be too dangerous to sleep. Placing my back firm against the widest corner, I watch the shadows above me dance. The music on my iPod drifting to the back of my mind. The smell of the mahogany colored wall paint still lingered here, but it has been for long since it’s bothered me. Here I am at peace.