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The bed was shoved in the corner, unmade. There were no sheets on the stained mattress, just one thin blue blanket that had the texture of felt. The closet was open, dirty clothes piled on the floor next to shoes with holes and broken laces. My bedside drawer was open, and I had a sudden vivid memory of the last morning I’d spent here.
I hadn’t slept, nerves keeping me awake with thoughts of what I was about to do. I laid awake and stared at the ceiling, as the word “murderer” rolled around on my tongue.
I didn’t want to hurt anyone. I didn’t.
But part of me wanted to. Part of me was willing. Part of me knew that if Kyle didn’t stop, I’d do what I needed to.
I rolled out of bed, yanked open the drawer, and put the knife in my back pocket...
A hand grasped my shoulder and squeezed. Vincent. “You okay, man?”
I nodded. “Yep. Totally fine. Let’s clear this shit out.”
“It’s really remarkable,” Jason said, hands in his pockets as he looked around. “This room has perfectly preserved the stench of a teenage boy.”
“Just like your own room, bud,” Lucas said, slapping him on the back with enough force to make him huff.
We got to work, equipped with black trash bags. The closet seemed like the most approachable area for me so that was where I started, stuffing clothes and pieces of trash into the bag. I didn’t look at anything too long. I tried not to get caught up in it.
“Hey, Manson? Do you want —” Jess abruptly cut off, and as I turned around, I could tell that Lucas had tried to stop her from asking. She held a photo in her hands, and she quickly stuffed it in her trash bag. “Never mind. It was nothing.”
“It’s okay,” I said. I didn’t want them to feel like they had to tiptoe around me. Curious now, I pulled the picture back out of her bag and turned it over.
It was a photo of my mom and I. It was the only family trip I could remember us ever taking — I was around five years old at the time. We’d gone camping for the weekend, and Dad had spent most of his time hunting, leaving Mom and I alone at the campsite.
She was different back then. She was so young, younger than I was now. In the photo, she was smiling with her cheek squished against my head. Her arm was held out, since she’d taken the photo herself on a disposable camera. I was smiling big, holding a frog with both hands, my glasses askew on my nose.
We looked normal. Like a happy mother and son.
Mom had looked nothing like that when she died. It was like she rotted before she was even dead. Her face had grown haggard, all the weight had fallen off her bones. Toward the end, she’d barely been eating, hardly sleeping. Just pills and booze, over and over until her body couldn’t sustain itself anymore.
“I can get rid of it,” Jess said softly. I handed it back to her. “Do you want me to?”
I shook my head. I had no idea what that photo meant to me, but it felt strange to see it. Not bad, exactly, but not happy either. It was a memory filled with melancholy and a strange sense of longing.
“I’ll keep it,” Jess said, holding the photo against her chest. “That way, you won’t have to think about it unless you specifically want it.”
“Thanks, Jess.” There was so much of my childhood I either couldn’t remember or didn’t want to. But there were little moments — bright spots in an endless abyss. Things like this photo, that reminded me of goodness and love, no matter how brief they’d been.
It felt important to remember.
Before too long, Jason and Lucas were hauling the old mattress outside to the dumpster and the room was finally empty. There was still plenty of dust and dirt piled in the corners, but all my old stuff was gone.
Standing in the empty room, I stared at the faded paint and mildew stains on the walls. This place used to feel like a pit I was trapped in, scrambling for a way out. But it didn’t feel threatening anymore. It was muted, like any other place abandoned for years. There was nothing remaining here that couldn’t be repaired, painted over and laid to rest.
We swept, dusted, and wiped everything down before we took a break. Vincent cooked up some lunch for us, but I still didn’t have much of an appetite.
As they all sat on the porch to eat, I found myself back inside, wandering around my old room.
It had taken me a long time to realize that “home,” to most people, represented a place of comfort and safety. Home was a place peoplewantedto return to, not one they dreaded or feared. I’d had to build my own home, my own family. I’d crafted it in the only way I knew how; it was messy and strange, but it was mine and no one could take it away from me.
No one. Not Alex or Nate, and not my father.
Sinking down to the floor, I sat with my back resting against the wall beneath the window. Facing the open doorway, my stomach felt hollow. My fingers twitched in a familiar rhythm, as if I was flipping my blade open and closed, and I closed my eyes.
This feeling wasn’t joy; it wasn’t sadness. It felt as if I’d finally put down a weight I’d been carrying for far too long. But it still ached, as if the weight had compressed me down. Even in its absence, its effects remained.
Maybe some wounds never healed. They needed to be tended forever, treated gently. It was hard to accept that when it felt like admitting defeat.
