It Starts With Him

23

No one answers. I wait for minutes, maybe two, maybe five, but no one ever comes to the oak door to let me inside. I stand on the porch, my slender fingers curled around my arms as my toes thump against the wood in impatience. I debate leaving. He's obviously home - his car is here and a light is on. If he doesn't bother to even greet me, why should I stand here and wait?

But, I think to myself, I was the one in the first place who yelled at him. I probably wouldn't answer the door either if I were in his shoes.

"Ace?" I call, knocking again. I wait. Nothing.

I impatiently huff and feel my brows pull together in frustration. I have to talk to him. I deserve answers, and he deserves an apology. It's now or never. He must know I'm here, and if I were to leave now, then I'd probably just end up coming back in a couple of days anyway.

"I'm coming in if you don't open the door, Ace, we have to talk," I exclaim again. Still nothing. That's it. I grip the metal doorknob, cool against the warm summer air, and twist it, pushing the door open inwards. It opens with a creak, and I step inside cautiously. I'm in the living room, but there is no one here. No lights are on.

I recall the one light from upstairs and decide he must be in his room. Maybe he didn't hear me after all.

I politely slip off my shoes, leaving them delicately placed on a knitted welcome mat at the base of the oak wood door. Quietly, I make my way through the base level of the house attempting to find the stairs.

It's messy, I realize with a wrinkle of my nose. In absolute shambles. The carpeted floor is stained with old food and dirt as if it hasn't been cleaned once in forty years, and the old, soiled, mucus-green sofa is littered with empty beer cans, the stench wafting into my nostrils like acid.

My hand instinctively flies up to my face to hide my nose from the smell. The disarray of the house totally shocks me. Every time I've ever seen Ace, he's been well-groomed and always smelled like cologne and soap. How could someone who appeared so clean live like this? It blows my mind. And he lives by himself, so it surprises me he even has this much to clean up - or not clean up.

I walk past the kitchen now which is even worse than the living room. The sink is piled so high with dirty dishes that I can't even see the faucet. The stove is so coated in dried food that I don't even know how anything can be cooked on it.

I keep my hand covering my face as I find the stairs. I don't touch the railing, not knowing what could be on it. The carpeted stairs are just as filthy as the downstairs was. Many sets of dirty footprints have trekked up them and left stains. I try to ignore them and go upstairs. I can't believe the condition of this place.

Once on the second floor, I realize the light that I saw on was a bathroom light, not a bedroom one. But to the right of the staircase, I see a door with a slightly crinkled paper on top reading "Ace's lair" in blue crayon, scrawled in little kid handwriting. He must have written it as a child and hasn't taken it down. Maybe he's asleep? I trudge towards it and knock lightly on the door. With that, I slowly push it open. The room is spotless and empty. Ace is nowhere to be seen.

To the left is a black desk completely clear except for a lamp that isn't plugged in, a cup filled with pens, and a picture frame with him as a small child with a woman and man behind him. Their faces are lit up with laughter, and I've never seen Ace look so happy. These must be his parents before they split.

Next to it is a tall, four-shelved cherry wood bookshelf spilling with novel after novel. I realize with a smile that I am familiar with most of the titles.

Then is the bed. It's only a twin, and the wood is stained and seems like it may be rotting, a comfortably large window sitting above it. The bedspread also looks old, but clean. The bed is the only thing in the room that isn't picture perfect. The navy blue comforter is ruffled around it like a sea of angry, dark waves, the three pillows strewn in disarray among the sheets.