A Walk Down Ivy Laine

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

Evening the following day, when the crickets are out.

I burned a spider with my lighter today. He burst open with pop.

The laceration on my stomach keeps breaking open. Just the slightest bend and a searing pain ricochets up my abdomen and another shirt is ruined. I have to use a sewing needle from my tiny dollar-store mending kit to patch it up. I have to boil a small pot of water on my foreman grill, and literally stitch myself together, again.

I still haven't heard anything downstairs. The latch is locked again. The pole was discarded in the hallway downstairs. Though bent, it still works. Two whole days of nothing though. Weird. Hilda's car is still in the drive. Can it be that Bill feels guilty for this and took his wife somewhere nice? Or is the devil lurking in the dark downstairs, waiting for me to use the tinkle-room instead of the bucket I toss out the window and wash by hand?

My phone goes off again. Nicki or Tucker for the millionth Time. I ignore it, smashing the end button with my elbow without glancing at the screen.

Ouch! I mutter to myself, shakily finishing up the last stitch. The cavern slowly draws closed, pinch by bloody pinch. My fingers are red and sticky.

A large ancient looking travel bag stares at me in a sad way from across the room. It's green and orange plaid, moth exposure tells me it's in retirement. I'm imposing on its decomposition, but what else could I have fit my whole life in to? Bags are expensive and this came with the attic. It's only fair that I bring it with me. Maybe once I find a new place, I can leave it in a closet somewhere to live out the rest of its life.

Willy is asleep. Downstairs is still silent, but I desperately need out. My attic is a prison right now. A hot prison. My rotating fan in the corner can only do so much with the fresh air from my small singular window.

Carefully and slowly, so not to rip my poor stitches, I lower myself on the stairs and listen for a solid five minutes for any kind of movement. Keeping the lights off, I wonder down the hall and down the stairs. The house is a dark-quiet. The kind of quiet that seems loud in your ears because of the lack of sound. Not even the air conditioner is on, which is odd considering Hilda pitches a fit if it goes anywhere above sixty-seven in the house. Of course my attic is exempt from this luxury. 

In the fridge I find a half-eaten red velvet cake. It goes down okay with a glass of Apple Cider from a dusty bottle I find in the pantry with a red ribbon still wrapped around it. Probably a forgotten wedding present. I decide that before I leave at the end of this week, to come grab it and smash it against the house. My own little bon voyage ceremony. Hopefully Bill steps on the glass.

It hurts to think that I'm turning maniacal, but what else would I be if I don't? 

The fresh air feels amazing on the back porch. A light breeze ripples across my over-sized sleep shirt and shorts as I step onto the patchy grass. Very carefully I stretch my sore and stiff limbs, testing them out. My feet are bare as I tread over the trail toward the vines, barely noticing any sharp rocks. There are bigger pains to worry about.

The sunrise is calling my name. I hope the rising sun burns all the bad memories away through my eyes so I can be blind to the world from now on. If I can't see it, maybe it will make time go by faster. My family is waiting.