The Enchanted Ocean Of Fantasy's

730 Days

My eyes felt like galaxies—holding the swirling glow of countless memories—as I took in our childhood home. Its siding looked like remnants of driftwood after a bonfire. I swore I smelled the smoky char of pine creep into my nostrils. It’s wild how the past stays with you like that. It can feel more visceral and real than the tangible things right in front of you. 

“Jesus, it feels like just yesterday.” I placed a trembling hand over my heart, struggling to steady my breath.

My brother, Perry, pulled me into a tight embrace, his strength grounding me like an anchor.

“The house hasn’t changed much,” he said, his voice steady and comforting. “But we have.” His certainty made me question, Have I really changed?

Between the two of us, Perry was as solid and stoic as a mountain range. Good thing, because I was like the wind—flighty and unpredictable. Over the years, Perry had learned to handle even my harshest hurricanes.

Being his older sister—even if only by four minutes—I always wished I’d been his protector rather than the other way around. But that demon burning deep in my belly also flashed a crooked smile, knowing that Perry would never abandon me, especially since I got sober.

I hadn’t had a drink in exactly seven hundred and thirty days, and although it remained unsaid, I knew Perry was terrified of leaving me to my own devices in fear I would relapse.

Our sibling bond was iron-clad. After we lost our parents in the fire (my mother didn’t properly butt out her 2:00 am cigarette and well, the rest is history), all Perry and I had was each other. But let’s call a spade a spade; we were also as fucked up and as co-dependent as it gets. Who mutually decides to visit the catalyst of your alcohol addiction on the anniversary of your sobriety?

The house’s dilapidated front door creaked as Perry gently pushed it open. The rusted metal hinges were holding it up by a thread. 

“After you.” Perry gestured me in, squinting from the sunlight. He was a gentleman, even in such obscurity.

As he held the door open, the shallow scar on his right cheek taunted me like some kind of schoolyard bully. His wound often pulled me in like that. Some days, I was sure I would dive right into it and drown. Other days, I prayed to God and the Devil himself to just let me fucking drown, already. 

That mark became permanently etched on Perry’s face on the day I quit drinking, exactly seven hundred and thirty days ago. That was the day Perry screamed bloody murder at me from the passenger seat, “Jackie! Stop the fucking car!” But my bloodstream was far too poisoned with Bacardi Limon to listen. All I remember next was my vehicle being wrapped around a tree. I could have died that day, but what truly disturbed me in the middle of the night was the fact that I almost killed Perry. 

A lot can happen in seven hundred and thirty days. But I assure you, forgiving yourself isn’t one of them. 

“Well? You coming in?” Perry was still holding the door ajar.

I shook it off and gave my brother a knowing glance. I swear, even though we were fraternal, we had twin telepathy. I exhaled and walked in.

“Watch your step,” I warned, my forehead tense. 

I imagined the rickety floorboards collapsing, crashing us into what had once been our dad’s “man cave”. That’s where he was passed out, the night of the fire. 

“Kids, stay here. Do not move,” our mother demanded after getting us out of the house safely. I remember the black soot on her face and the spiderweb veins in her eyes. She shook us firmly by the forearms. “I’m getting your father.”