A day or two after that phone call, there was a knock on the door of the apartment. It was already late so Dad was already at work at the railyard, the dark spots against the linoleum by the front door marking where his work boots usually sit from where mud, silt and dirt had been so thickly caked against the floor that the stain was pretty much permanent, dark rings of muck and grime staining the once white flooring, scuff and scratch marks from dragged footsteps marking the flooring. I looked through the peephole before slowly cracking the door open: undoing the at least dozen or so locks that Dad’s installed on the door. Outside the door was…an entire set of luggage: at least six-seven or so suitcases ranging from as tall as my knees to as tall as my hips and a dark deep turquoise color covered in gold paisley print, all the handles adorned with a big red bow. I looked around extremely confused as I slid all of the bags in, going through every possible spot for them to hide something in them; every external, internal and side pocket, running my hands along the liner for anything that could possibly be hidden under the thin black fabric. Nothing, but on the largest bag’s handle was a big tag: one that some mall would use on a Christmas display or that someone would put on a present in a movie or something: thick ivory cardstock edged in red with ornate fancy script along it that said.
-Anything to help. Mister Leo
Along with the suitcases were a large plate of cookies fresh enough to the point where steam had started to collect along the plastic cover. I smiled softly as I set the plate on the counter, the plate was probably something from Christmas because it was bright red and looped with snowmen and Christmas trees with the edge decorated with lights, taking a few of the still warm cookies out as I started the process of bringing all of the cases into my room. The cookies were really good: chocolate macadamia and Mister Leo is like famous in the neighborhood for his cookies, so they’re without a doubt some of the best cookies you can get. He’s one of those people that nearly leaves their holiday décor up constantly till they’re getting fines about how long they’ve been up.
I sighed as I sat on the floor of my room, looking at the suitcases and things…I don’t even think I have enough clothing to fit the big one. I could probably fit all of my things in just the largest one: including books, shoes and everything. I have maybe three pairs of shoes in total. I sighed a little as I nestled back against the wall, the window above me letting soft moonlight in through into the room that sent sprawling shadows across the room like long fingers reaching out towards me; trying to grab onto me, pull me deeper into the shadows around me and made me rest my head back and close my eyes as I focused on breathing deeply and slowly to calm myself as I felt my heart thudding in my chest. I have always had some troubles with things like anxiety and depression because of the fact…my entire early teen ears on were plagued by Dad’s paranoia. I mean, I was…thirteen when Mom was killed. I know it’s only been a little bit over five years sense Mom was murdered, but…there is just signs that will always be there in Dad and I; lasting wounds of what happened. My parents were soulmates according to the other: before Mom died, Dad was known about town for being the more “eccentric” and out there members of the community.
I sighed deeply as I stood back up and pulled my boots back on before throwing a jacket on and grabbing my phone and keys, I just walked down the steps of the apartment building, the thick soles peppering the air along with the sound of rattling train axels and the chorus of birds, crickets and other creatures out there. I didn’t grab my bike as I pulled my hood up before just walking down the street as I pushed my hands into the big pocket of my jacket, looking down towards the sidewalk as I keep myself calm, breathing deeply as my breath trickled like fog out of my nose and off the sides of my face. The soft buzzing of the streetlights as they casted a pale warm light across the dark landscape around me, empty lots occupied by discarded shipping crates, that were tagged vibrantly in graffiti, spots of metal were ripped open from teens or other college kids breaking into the crates to use as areas to hang out in, drink or have parties in. I made my way through the much larger up-town area. We live on the south-side of Arcata, the north side is much larger…there’s still less than twenty thousand people, but the small “town” offshoot we live in has maybe a hundred or two across our grounds. I walked through the big plaza, the entire town ghostly and quiet around me as I walked through the darkness.
I walked for a while as my boots clopped down the ghostly empty street before I turned down a smaller side-road leading out of town towards the west of the town, the thin street fading thinner and thinner before the sound of even concrete turned to the crunching of gravel and stone understood as I walked. The already low building fading out to forestry before I turned down an even smaller side street of loose gravel, edged in the crumbling stone walls wrapped in plants. I came across a ruined low, low stone wall, an iron gate spanning the gravel road, hanging off one of its hinges and the walls and gate entirely wrapped in overgrown ivy, thorn bushes and thistle, the lanterns that were along the tops were broken out and hanging off the posts. I pushed at the gate which rattled loudly as I pushed the gate’s side inwards as I walked through the gate. Past the gate was a house considerably in ruin despite the fact it has only been five years: the house was a small cabin: made of locally sourced thick logs, the windows broken inwards or out, the front door hanging off its hinges, the walls and roof covered in sprawling plants, a small tree beside the house had fallen over and into the house leaving a wall broken down on the back offshoot. Extensive gardens off the front and sides now sprawling and overgrown; the fruit trees left unpruned or kept for leaving them to sprawl out and become this wonderous canopy of color as they were in bloom, herb plants in pots now discarded overtaking their trellis making the cool air crisp with the smell of basil, rosemary, peppers and lemongrass whereas other more temperamental plants I remember growing with Mom have been left to rot and decay into mulch in what was once the structures they were once housed in. A broken hanging chime hanging beside the door hung in loose frayed cord, the chimes still hanging pinging and dinging out into the clearing’s space. The first lights of dawn starting to sprawl out across the forestry around me.
I walked ahead, stepping over the loose stepping stones that led up to the front door which was broken off and wedge weirdly, so I just walked off to the side before shuffling myself in through the hole left by the falling tree. Inside had been left to nature: rot taking over the supports and posts, bird nests spotting the open hole’s edge and various things around. The hole had let into what would have been our living room, the furniture gone because Dad sold it for money, the cobblestone fireplace still standing up to the tree that was now using it as a joist. The living room moved back through the house to the dining room where a light fixture once hung ornately decorated in trinkets and things Mom brought from overseas, big window to the right of the table broken outwards to let these thick vines trail in wards and up the walls. Just part the dining room was what used to be out kitchen: dark wood cabinets hanging open and empty, the stone countertops now cracked, caked in dust and spiderwebs sprawling up the wall and ceiling. To my left the wall used to be covered in shelves of books, pictures and things…now left….empty and broken. A small hall leading off towards the front door to the left as I walked over: a wide opening topped with simple spandrel led into what used to be Mom’s office: the smaller room with a huge window looking out into the front room, walls covered in built in shelves left empty and overtaken, a desk had once sat in the center facing outwards towards the window, but no empty space lingered. The scent of spices, incense and herbs gone and replaced with the sickly sweet ire of rotting wood and nature. A room I used to play in the corner of while Mom took calls or worked on emails, that used to be so warm, kind and home…now was quiet, cold and grim.
I sighed as I leaned on the wall, closing my eyes tightly as I felt a short cry rock through my shoulders as I looked towards the floor before I rubbed my eyes as I shook off the tears as I looked back up. I looked behind my shoulder to the L shaped staircase that coiled to the second floor, steps made of halved logs with once ornately carved railings and posts were now draped in spiderwebs and vines. I walked past the stairs along the wood paneled wall, my footsteps clacking against the now springy rotting floorboards as I walked up to a brightly blue painted door, the pain peeling and chipping away off the wood and decorated with paisley. I pushed the door open into what used to be my old room: the sound of jangled chimes filed my ear as the door swung open in a loud, long creak…the blue painted walls adorned with peeling, ripped and frayed posters and pictures, a heavy wooden bedframe in the back corner free of mattress, spring or bedding, just an empty frame, big bay window looking out into the front yard. The ceiling still painted with elaborately colored space. The soft dawn light making everything beautiful shades of blues, greens, peach and gold tones.
I sighed as I leaned on the wall as I rubbed at my eyes before turning and walked back towards the stairs as I reached out, hesitantly putting a foot on one, the wood creaked and bowed under me as I took a step up. I found the firmer spots to rest my weight as I walked up the swept curve stairs to the lofted area that served as my parent’s room: the stairs letting up right beside the wall: the area above my room serving as their bathroom, there was a half-bath just past my bedroom door. The loft was open to the living room below only, the thick chain of the light hanging from the vaulted ceiling, a raw branch railing serving as the edges of the loft as the big frame that used to be my parent’s bed sat: made of antlers and horns from deer and rams, big circular window above the headboard and lots of antler fixtures around the room. There were no signs of my family being here…there was…nothing. I closed my eyes as I rubbed at them before walking back downstairs and leaving the house.
Comments (1)
See all