Mare Moody - [blank]

Suddenly, the car jerks to a stop. I look out of the window. The look of it hits me like a slap in the face. Before I get out, I pull my wallet out of my pocket and absent mindedly hand the fare to the driver. Then, like clockwork, my shaking hands open the door. I step out, still completely unsure of my decision.

I close the door of the taxi and it speeds off into the city streets.

I look up at the building. The architecture matches my house, brick for brick. It is identical. It was created this way intentionally. The only difference is that this house is alive. Flower boxes are placed in every other window. Their presence promises life to its inhabitants.

I walk unsteadily up to the door and knock.

I stand for a moment in front of the door while awaiting a response. The door is painted a vibrant red but the paint is slowly peeling from the corners.

The door opens quickly and he is standing in front of me.

“Ana?” he looks at me in shock.

“Hi, Dad.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks, completely agast.

“I-uh.” I can’t manage to produce any reason. I could tell him what happened with Kane but I would risk him asking questions which I can’t answer. Questions which I won’t answer.

“Please, come in.” Despite not seeing me for five years, he knows me and is totally aware that I will not give him any reason until I am in the right state of mind. He is also aware that that state is not going to manifest naturally while standing on his porch. He steps out of the door frame and gestures into the house.

The living room is breathing with vibrancy. The windows are open and light pours in. White curtains hang over them; they blow in the gentle breeze.

Leather couches lay casually in the center of the room. They are well worn but not so worn that they look old. This house is lived in. It not simply a cover from the rain.

“Come sit on the couch,” he says, walking over to the living room, “do you want some coffee?”

“Uh, no,” I say as I gingerly smile, “thank you.”

“No problem.” He smiles back at me.

I look at his face. It’s much older than I remember. Wrinkles outline his exhausted features. The only wrinkles he lacks are ones around his cheeks. He stopped smiling before the aging began.

He sits down on the arm chair adjacent to the couch and gestures for me to sit. As I sit, I sink into the crisp leather. The smell of new money breathes out of it as my body stretches the fabric.

“So, why are you here?” He questions.

I rack my brain. I am here because I know if I don’t leave my neighborhood that I will continue in the non-stop circle of hell. Kane will continue his abuse if I stay where I was. I can’t tell him this but he reads it all over my face. Though we have been apart for 5 years, he still knows me.

“It’s Kane,” he states.

My eyes look at him, entirely guilty.

“I told you he was no good!” he witling sneers.

I lower my head in shame.

“What did he do to you?”

What did he not do to me?

“We had an argument,” I sigh, “that’s all.”

My father sighs in beat with me. We are both exacerbated by the experiences that I have endured.

“You need to stay here.” He looks at me intently.

I match his gaze. This is the first time I’ve looked into my father’s eyes in 5 years.

“Forever.” It is not a suggestion from him, it is a demand.

“Only for a few days, Dad.” I say.

“No!” he yells, “Your grandmother should’ve never let you move in and you definitely shouldn't have stayed after she passed.”

I sigh again. I did it to be close to Kane and he knows that. My young mind did not think about the consequences that would arise.

“Dad, I’ll stay tonight,” I say, “we’ll see after that.”

He sighs and puts his hand up as if to block the anger that would be growing in him if he allowed. He slowly nods.

I get off of the couch and walk out of the living room. My memory brings me up the stairs and towards my old bedroom. My door is ajar and I can see the gaunty lime green walls from the end of the hallway. The walls of the hallway are dimly lit. They are littered with photographs. I know if I turn my head and look at them that it will break my already cracking mental health.

My feet bring me to the door frame and I peer in. The bells of my childhood mobile ring in my ears. This rhythm has never truly left my mind. I look around. It is exactly how I left it.

My bed is neatly made. The gray blanket still lays carefully over my bed. The small bed lies on the floor with a frame. Just how I liked it.

In my house, this room is completely bare.

I look at the walls. Pictures are hanging in glittery frames. Times from when I was happy rush over me. Huge smiles are plastered on my face through all of them. My arms casually thrown over friends shoulders, embracing them. I haven’t seen these people since we graduated.

Suddenly, memories of my graduation fill my head and I am overwhelmed. My mind flashes back to my walk of Pomp and Circumstance. My cap and gown completely blank. I lost everything that year. Tears flowed down my face during my walk. That was when hell began.

I close my eyes tightly. I have repressed these memories ever since they happened. I don’t need to remember. I sit on the edge of my bed and put my head in my hands. Why is life so messy?

I hear footsteps walking down the hallway. My father walks into my room and sits next to me on my bed. He puts his arms around me in an attempt to console me. His arms make me uncomfortable.

I remember him screaming at me, a lonely 18 year old. He told me it was all my fault. I could have stopped it.

“Kane was never good for you,” he says softly.

Tears develop in the corner of my eyes. I have wasted so many tears on Kane.

“Your mother would be proud that you left,” he coos.

That sets me off. I get up and push his arms of me. I look at him and anger fills my stomach. In his face lays all of the torture that caused my downfall. How can he even dare tell me how my mother would feel. He has no idea.

“Don’t pretend like you know how mom would feel,” I demand, the anger rising. He senses my anger and sighs.

“She has been gone long enough, Ana,” he says gently, “you need to let it go.”

Let it go?

He is right.

It is your fault. You fucking whore.

The voices push me into a deeper anger. A fire burns in my soul and when I open my mouth, I am sure that flames will fly out and bite at his sinful face. My jaw is clenched so hard that the nerves in my cheeks begin to pinch and get sore.

I look down at him.

“You told me it was my fault.” I spit.

He sighs and rubs his face with his hands. He acts so nonchalant about this but that one sentence has shaped who I have become.

“I mean,” he sighs again, “in retrospect, it was your fault.”

As the sentence reaches my ears, the fire grows. It flickers in my stomach. It burns a hole in my esophagus and the fire licks out of my neck uncontrollably.

I turn around and walk out.

I can’t be here.

I walk through the living room and out of the door. I slam the door behind me and march onto the sidewalk.

The cool Boston breeze hits me. It hits the flame bursting from my neck and calms it. I can breathe again. I walk down the street. I haven’t been in this part of Boston since I moved. The architecture calms me more. Though this city never treated me well, it’s appearance resembles a hug from a maternal figure. Familiar and inviting.

I continue walking. As my feet move, I get deeper into the city. The fire hits my liver and I urn for a drink. My feet lead me to the closest bar. I know that being drunk isn’t the thing I need right now but something has to numb my brain because nothing else will.