Unknown - Lesbian runaway

Teen Kelly Kane was being kept prisoner in the attic.

She had gotten caught…

It was about nine o'clock on a midwinter night, in the middle of the week. Kelly dreaded the imminent appearance of her hated step-father.

Kelly was in her mid-teens, an all-American beauty.

Depression put her body in a slump, as well as lowering her spirits.

She had been kept penned up here for the last two days and nights, since that awful Monday when her world had fallen apart.

When she had gotten caught – caught sinning.

Thank heavens she had only been caught in a kiss, instead of some of the other things she often did with her… special lover.

Dan Waxer – her mother's husband (Kelly never could and never would think of him as her step-father, the idea was repellent) – had fixed up this attic cell.

It was her mother's house, the Kane family house, once Kelly's house, too, but no longer; not since that man had moved in.

The house had a peaked roof, with the attic directly under it. Planks were laid across the rafters to make a floor.

Not all the attic was floored. At the edges, where the pitch of the roof was so low that there was only a few feet of standing space, the boards had not been put in.

Dangling from the ceiling was a wire socket holding a bare, dim, unshaded lamp bulb providing the only light in that place.

Set close to the door was a metal cot, with a thin mattress, sheeted and blanketed. On that mattress, Kelly sat.

It was warm in the attic. The attic was loaded with old household items, including an ancient electric heater which still worked.

It was a small model, which she had set up close to her feet. Its glowing red wires threw off enough heat to keep her warm.

Kelly sat on the cot, with her feet on the floor, her elbows on her knees, and her head resting on her hands, brooding.

She was a lovely girl, with long straight fair hair, a delicately featured pink oval face, and a slim, slender body.

She wore a ski sweater and a pair of skin-tight, frayed, faded jeans. Socks covered her feet, and she had wrapped an old blanket on her shoulders.

Not far from her was the stairwell, a hollow containing eight steep, narrow wooden stairs which led up to the attic.

At the foot of the stairs was a solid panel door.

This old door showed new markings, where Dan Waxer had drilled holes through it to install a lock and hasp.

The door was locked from the outside – sealing Kelly in.

Keeping her prisoner.

For what?

Kelly feared she knew the answer to that question all too well.

The door was solid, as Kelly had discovered when she tested it.

She was locked in.

The attic was very dark and dim, even under the bare light bulb, whose wattage was weak, whose gloom was maddening to eyes that loved light.

Kelly was in low spirits. Her lovely hair hung limply, lank, needing washing.

Time, too, hung heavy on her hands. The only amusement – and it was a thin one – was provided by a box full of old magazines which she had discovered.

They served as a scant consolation prize of sorts, since she had uncovered them while searching the attic for a way out.

She had not found one.

The attic was solid, windowless. Its only opening, apart from the locked door, was the space where the attic fan was set.

Being blocked by the fan blades, it gave no exit.

Kelly could not even call for help, for the house was at the end of a dead-end street, with fields and trees beyond it.

Besides, Dan Waxer was home all day and night, and would hear her calls for help long before any outsider would.

He was, among other character defects, a shiftless bum. He had gotten laid off from his job a long time ago.

His unemployment benefits had run out long ago, but he was content to sit around the house all day and drink beer and subsist on his wife's earnings.

At least that source of supply was about to run dry, Kelly thought thankfully. Her mother's illness would see to that.

Her mother, always of fragile health, had had to go away to Florida, to live with her retired sister for a while to build up her health.

Which unfortunately had left her daughter, Kelly, alone with Dan Waxer.

It had been the worst of all possible times for Kelly's secret sins to be discovered, as they unhappily had been.

Scattered around the floor by the cot were some ancient LIFE magazines from over twenty years ago – why, they were five years older than Kelly herself.

They had provided a bit of amusement in her confinement. She especially liked the photo spreads covering popular actresses of the era.

How sleek and glamorous and lovely they looked, all dressed up and glittering with jewels as they attended social functions!

Still, she wouldn't have traded any one of them for lovely Laurel Wilson.

Thinking of Laurel – and the plight which she shared to an extent with Kelly – made Kelly's eyes mist over with wetness.

Kelly was concerned, not for herself, but for Laurel.

If only she could see Laurel, talk to her, even for a moment!

If only the two of them hadn't gotten caught!

Only a few days ago – as recently as Sunday, in fact – everything had been going perfectly, with idyllic happiness.

Kelly's mind flashed back to that Sunday:

She had gotten up early, to visit her special friend. It was bright and clear and cold outside, and she had dressed warmly.

When she was all dressed, she unlocked her bedroom door, and listened.

Her door in her room had a lock, and ever since Dan Waxer had come to live in the house, Kelly had taken to locking it religiously.

Opening the door a crack, she stuck her head out, listening.

It was early – a little after eight on a Sunday morning.

She didn't expect to find Dan Waxer up and about, and thankfully, she didn't.

She held her boots and tiptoed through the hall in her stocking feet.

She crept down the stairs, freezing in the middle of them.

Dan Waxer sprawled dead drunk, sleeping off last night's boozing.

His ungainly, oversized form was draped over the couch. He lay on his belly; with one arm trailing down over the side of the couch.

He was dressed only in a stained undershirt and a pair of old-fashioned boxer shorts, which were stretched tight across his broad ass.

His shoulders, back, arms, and spindly legs bristled with dark, furlike hair.

He snored, choked, sniffled, gurgled, and made other noises.

But he slept, and for that, Kelly was grateful.

With extra care, she sneaked through the living room into the kitchen.

Dan Waxer did not wake.

In the kitchen, she pulled on her quilted winter coat and a knitted woolen cap which she covered her blonde head with.

She let herself out the side door, easing it and the storm door quietly shut.

It was a bright crisp clear morning, whose chill snapped red color into her pink cheeks, and whose air was invigorating.

Kelly took her bike from the garage, climbed on, went down the driveway and up the street, pedaling hard to get away.

Her legs pumped, so that she left the house far behind in the distance.

It was early, and few folks were stirring out of doors in this suburban town.

In an hour or so, some families would emerge, all dressed up, so that they might attend Sunday services at church.

It was chilly, but a few moments of exercise warmed Kelly up.

She steered her bike through the quiet winding streets. She had a long way to go, over to the other side of town.

Presently she reached the town's business district and main street.

A small secret smile curved her pink lips as she passed the high school she attended – which was attended by Laurel as well.