irrevocable

{Twenty-Four}

my tears ricochet // Taylor Swift

Holly

Standing at the curb while facing my house isn't something new. I've walked up the pathway to open the door more times than I can count. But today is different.

I hold my keys in one hand and my phone in the other. Jackson called me just as I'd gotten finished with some errands to pick up meds for my mom. I was down the street from here, knowing my dad could be close by but not feeling nervous about it. Not feeling anything about it for once. Maybe that's because Jackson has become a stronger presence in my life than the threat of my father. Or maybe I'm just in denial.

I take a few steps down the sidewalk to the dirt driveway. It runs past the house several feet to the run-down garage, actually in worse shape than the house which might be why I'd never paid close attention to the disrepair our home has come into. The house always looked better than the garage so I figured it would do. But now, the blinders are off and it all looks like shit. I take a deep breath and make my way down the dirt path leading to the back of the house and right toward the garage.

I always wondered what my dad kept stashed out back. Our garage is more of a shed than anything else. Mom's car took up most of the space when it became inoperable. It's a rat's nest, literally. I'd put out traps, but I don't think I could stomach cleaning them out as often as I'd have to. I try not to picture what could be crawling around in here as I wiggle the key into the lock. It's a padlock on a wooden door so riddled with dry rot I'm shocked no one's busted it open. This neighborhood isn't one to watch out for each other, more likely to take the opportunity to rob their neighbors blind if given the chance. This rotten door is one giant welcome sign for any petty thieves lurking around.

It occurs to me that the mere threat posed by my dad's name might be keeping criminals away from here. How ironic that his reputation strikes enough fear in others to protect our home but it's the very thing I want to escape.

The lock clicks open. I undo the latch and pull the doors wide. Suddenly paranoid, I look down the driveway to the street, looking for any sign of my dad. But I see no one. Rather than leave the doors open giving an obvious sign of my presence, I slip inside and pull them shut behind me.

There's no light in here but there are enough cracks in the walls to let what little outside light is still present to illuminate the area. It's dim but still enough for me to see what I need to see as long as I work fast. The sun will be going down soon. My phone light will come in handy.

I start at the back where my dad keeps his motorcycle covered with a tarp. The fact that it's still here is a good sign. He might have already left for another haul. He doesn't drive his cab around when he's home as a general rule. The gas is too expensive for that, or so he says. I think he just prefers the noise the motorcycle makes. He's modified the muffler to within an inch of its life and I swear he's got hearing damage because of it. I'll admit that's come in handy a few times when I've been moving around the kitchen early in the morning and he's been snoring on the couch. My worst fear was waking him up before he was ready and suffering his wrath before I left for the day. I never knew if he'd end up taking it out on Mom who had no way to defend herself. I take a deep breath at the sobering thoughts, hopeful that we're out of that dark time of life.

Moving gingerly around his motorcycle—I have anxiety remembering him yelling not to touch the thing when I was a child—I find a few boxes stacked close by. Might as well start here. I don't know when Jackson might show up with the others and part of me needs answers now that the questions have been asked. What is Dad hiding in here?

I pull the lid off the top box, covered with dust and smelling of mildew. Inside are a bunch of random bike parts. I sift through them here and there, trying to see if anything stands out to me, but nothing does. The box is heavier than it looks when I try to move it off of the stack but I'm able to slide it over and lower it down to the floor without hurting myself. The next box is more of the same. And the next. It isn't until I absentmindedly slide the last box over, most likely because it's the pattern I'd gotten into with the other boxes, that something unusual finally stands out.