Read to the End

Welcome Home

It had been twenty-four years since she'd last seen it, but the place looked exactly the same. The door was that same olive green she'd hated as a little girl. The roof hung down over the red brick like a thick eyebrow. It always reminded her of the look her father gave her when he disapproved of her. Low and angry. The windows glared down at Gwen, daring her to come in.

Her mind screamed at her to stay away. But she couldn't. She felt she needed to go back, and not only because her therapist explained that facing childhood trauma could help her to move forward. She felt a psychological pull, an almost compulsion to return home.

So, there she stood, body shaking, mind racing. Back after years of simply existing, not living. Trying her best to move forward, but failing miserably. The front door creaked open. When she crossed the threshold, she slammed her eyes shut, not sure she was ready to face it yet.

The smell hit her first. Old Pine Sol and bleach— two of her mother's favorite things. Or so Gwen always thought.

How she could smell that, she didn't quite understand. But memories flooded her mind as she inhaled.

Saturday mornings spent scrubbing and scrubbing. And scrubbing. Her mother inspecting the work, declaring it unacceptable, which was always followed by more scrubbing.

She remembered her dad in the backyard, mowing the lawn, pulling weeds, watering, and obsessing over every tiny detail. He cared more about that lawn than he ever did about her. She remembered how he would scream at her if she even placed one foot on the overly green grass.

That was her childhood: perfectly clean, ordered, and so painful.

Her parents weren't fond of her irregularities. Her quirks as they told countless therapists. She was different, and that petrified them.

In an attempt to "fix" her, they secluded her from other children. They didn't allow her to play or imagine or explore. They were afraid of what would happen if she did.

Of course, this only managed to fill Gwen with a bitterness she had never been able to extinguish. And gave her the perfect reason to run away. So, at 15, she ran and never came back. She was alone, and afraid of who, or what, she may become.

She pushed those memories aside as she opened her eyes, one at a time.

The house was lit by an early afternoon sun. The wooden floor of the foyer glistened from the beams, lighting the house from the ground up. Straight ahead was the living room. Gwen walked over to it, barely noticing the family portraits hanging on the walls. The faces staring back at her were painted with joyful expressions.

Manufactured happiness.

False love.

She stopped at the threshold of the large living area. An old box television rested against the far wall, surrounded by VHS tapes. Against the other two walls were hideous flower-patterned sofas. So many flowers! She always felt dizzy staring at them as a kid. But there they were, as uncomfortable as ever.

A small, but well-maintained kitchen hid behind a half wall to the left of the television. Hanging on the fridge were coupons and reminders of things forgotten in time.

Gwen felt she had just stepped onto the set of a syndicated sitcom. The characters grew up, but the set never changed.

The bland kitchen led to a staircase which she walked up to. Worn-down green carpet sprawled across the steps. She inspected the first, and sure enough, a baseball-sized brown stain clung to the threads.

She felt bile fighting its way through her teeth while she stared at the spatter. She swallowed hard, trying to hold back the vomit and the memory associated with that smear. But it was no use. She replayed the night her mother's ears bled, causing her some hearing loss.