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I try the door handle, and to my amazement and shock, it’s unlocked.
Why the hell would I have left my apartment unlocked?
When I step inside, the smell of the old carpet fills me with the spirit of my past, the person I used to be before this all happened.
The smell of rotting dishes fills my sinuses, and I immediately want to retch and vomit at the sickly odor. The blinds are all drawn, giving the living room a ghostly shadow. Everything feels cursed, from the couch in the living room to the posters on the wall.
One White Thread.
There’s no way I ever actually liked that band, but why are they everywhere? They’re all over my life, and I fucking hate them!
I don’t want to go further, but I know that denying myself the chance to know who I was will haunt me until the day I die, even if I am happy and fulfilled in every other facet of my life.
Beyond the posters, there’s no indication of what kind of person I really was. The place is a shoebox with no warmth, personality, or positivity to be found.
When I wander into my old bedroom, the first thing I notice is a pile of dirty laundry at the foot of my bed.
Did I just sleep with it there? Without even trying to move it?
It’s clear that whoever lived here felt completely hopeless, undeserving of love or forgiveness.
There are no pictures on the wall, no mementos to remind me of the people in my life who surrounded me with their grace and compassion. It’s extremely bleak, giving me a sense of secondhand sadness. It feels like I’ve walked into the house of a hoarder, feeling heavy sympathy as I wander through the tomb they have built around themselves.
Suddenly, I’m overcome by a burst of emotion, everchanging and impossible to name. It feels like deep sadness, impotent rage, and the sweet, peaceful release of death.
I collapse to my knees, my vision tunneling into a grey, fuzzy smear as I grasp at nothing to keep myself grounded.
Am I choking? Am I having a seizure?
I’m completely overwhelmed by the memories as they come back to me, hitting me over the head with their poignancy in contrast with the dull, foggy nothing that had been taking their place for so long now.
I remain on my hands and knees for eternity inside of my own head, picking back up where I left off as I begin to weep uncontrollably.
30
RIVER
I’m sitting upright in a hot car with a cracked leather interior.
I’m panicking, feeling my own hopelessness and grief overflowing through me as I beg myself to do it, just do it.
You’ve been putting this off for so long.
It’s time to go now.
Don’t fight anymore. You’ll be safer this way.
I’m holding a pistol in my right hand and my wallet in the other.
Why am I holding my wallet?
The whole thing feels chaotic, surreal, and absurd. It’s begun to rain outside, and almost as if by God himself, gunshots ring out nearby.
Not unusual for this neighborhood, but for now, it’s the sign that I need. It’s over. It can all be over.
A million lifetimes rush through my head, starting with my tragic, loveless childhood that lacked the warmth and safety that a child needs to grow up happy, confident, and successful.
I see the face of a woman who looks just like me, my mother, bending over me with tears in her eyes as she tries to calm herself down.
