Retexo

de capo

The place reeked of the past. Dust motes swirled, particles danced in the rays of light that managed to sneak past the edges of the heavy navy curtains that were tightly drawn. The tartan couch sagged slightly on the right side the same way it did ten years prior; even the air smelled the same: a confusing mix of Chanel No. 5 and black liquorice. I am sure if I went beyond the sitting room, I'd find the bathroom the same shade of pale blue, the guest room made up in taupe and the smallest door at the end of hall would be as it always was: closed.

Swivelling to look at the mousy man nervously twitching man behind me, I finally spoke the words he'd wanted to hear for the past ten minutes. "Sell it."

He pretended to look shocked, pulling his face into an expression that more resembled gastrointestinal discomfort than surprise. "Are you sure, Miss Faulkner? I know that this was your childhood home...perhaps you want to hang on a bit? Indulge in the old memories?"

I cut him off before another sentimental cliché can come out of his mouth. "There are no memories here worth reliving, so please do your job, which I have vastly overpaid you for, and unload this house so I don't ever have to look at it again." He blubbered for a minute before mumbling into his cheap suit about some last minute paperwork and shuffles off to his car to retrieve it. As his footsteps faded, I turned to regard the kitchen in its shining glory, the only blemish covered carefully by a shiny new refrigerator- the new owners would never know what happened in this house, the woman who lived in it, or the girl who was left in it and never claimed.

As the dowdy real estate agent stumbled back through the front door and almost impaled himself on the sharp edge of the dining room table, I flinched unerringly before I had half a mind to stop myself.  He looked up from his wincing quizzically but I snatched the papers from his grasp before he could ask anything else. Signing hastily, I blinked at my signature still drying in black ink for a second before sliding them across the table. He twitched nervously as he read and reread the document.

"To be clear, Miss Faulkner, you're putting a fully furnished house on the market for far below the price you could fetch for it.....why?"

"What about my signature is unclear in this situation, Mr. Ardmore?" The query was cold and steely; I felt a bit bad as his mauve complexion purpled even further. I continued, softening a bit. "Money is not the object here, and when it comes to me it will never be."
He all but tripped on his words, "No, of course not. I wasn't trying to imply that you needed- I was just- I'm...." he trailed off, his face now the shade of an overripe tomato.

To humour him I made toward the inner parts of the home, peeping into the many closets on my journey down the wide hallways. Just as I'd predicted, the bathroom was still wonderfully lit, the light diffusing off of the powder blue walls and illuminating anything (and anyone) in with an almost ethereal quality. Blinking at my reflection in the gilded mirror, I could almost see the scared little girl from a decade ago next me, unruly pigtails and permanently wide eyes staring back into mine. Turning my back to step into the hallway, I flicked the light off, leaving the mirror and the little girl behind.

Next, I pushed the double doors open to the master bedroom and drink in what could be a photograph of some ten years prior. The chaise settee against the far wall was still a stiff and unwelcoming burgundy, bottles of expensive perfume sat glistening on the vanity, the overstuffed dresser leaked edges of expensive swatches of clothing that were once worn by a woman who had everything but a soul. For the first time in years, this room was not off-limits, no longer was it a place where dirty children are not allowed to tread.

I let out a breath that I didn't even know I was holding. Venturing into the centre of the room, I felt an overwhelming sense of being off balance, like the world was warping at the edges. Catching myself, I surveyed the place, noting the fine layer of grey that had settled on the windowsills, the jewellery that hung out that had lost its lustre. A flush of irritation crept up my body as I remembered exactly why  this was no longer a place I could stand to be in, why it might be a house but in no way was it a home. I backed out just as slowly as I had crept in, still intimidated by the ghost of something that was long gone. Closing the door behind me, I shut my eyes for moment, relishing the release I felt. Taking a deep breath, I looked up and across the hallway to the only room I'd yet to set foot in.

Feet heavy on the teakwood, tunnel vision on the thin, black door which once loomed above me-- it now barely cleared the top of my head. I placed a hand on the cold brass knob before realising that I was shaking so hard that the lock rattled beneath it.

"Get out of my sight you brat," she rages. Her hair has unfurled from the coif that is so painstakingly crafted each morning, and as she leans across the kitchen island, the girl starts violently into the table, the sharp chrome edge biting into her skin. The woman catches this and  rounds the corner of the counter closing in on the quaking figure across from her. "You're the most useless thing I've ever made, Aisling, and if your father isn't my biggest mistake then you certainly are." She grabs the girl, cruelly twisting her injured arm, holding it up. "You think this is pain? You think this hurts? Real pain is watching you amount to nothing, and me spending my money and my time trying to make garbage into something worthwhile." The girl wrenches herself out of the woman's grasp, tripping over her small feet as she hurtles through the room, running headlong into the couch. Undeterred, she gets up and runs fast, faster, faster, until she turns the large knob, cold in her hand and slams the door, fumbling with the lock. As it slides into place, ominous clicks resound in the hall she had just ran down as if her life depended on it. As they grow closer, the sounds of the woman's voice follow. "You think a door can keep you safe, you fucking waste? I can kill you, Aisling, I could kill you, Aisling, I WILL KILL YOU, AISLING." The door shakes, the knob rattles, and the chain of the lock strains and strains, and the little girl cries and cries, and finally the door bursts open-

Shuddering, I stepped back from the door and nearly jumped out of my skin as the realtor came up behind me. He back-pedalled, apologising profusely. "I'm so sorry, Miss Faulkner I didn't mean to startle you. Are you alright?" I dug my nails into my palm and smiled at him, trying desperately to keep from giving myself away. "I'm fine, Mr. Ardmore. I would just love to see the garden before I go, I used to love the flowers here. Just this one last thing before I get out of your hair." I promised him.
He scuttled his way back to his cracking suitcase, shuffling and reshuffling the papers, and I pushed open the back door and into the flower beds, an array of flora in full bloom painting the ground full of colour that seemed almost too alive for the house that it decorated. Dropping to my knees, I uttered a silent prayer and scooped around under a viburnum bush, digging my fingers into the soft soil until they finally wrapped around the cool rectangular surface they were seeking from the beginning. Brushing dirt and debris away, I lifted the tiny rusted box from its decade-long burial, barely shoving it into my purse before Neil Ardmore comes crashing, puffing through the gardenias. Interrupting what was sure to be a steady stream of more questions, I grabbed his arm and steered him quickly to the driveway.

"Miss Faulkner, are you sure-"

"I can assure you that everything is completely fine, Mr. Ardmore. I'm sure you'll do a spectacular job selling this house."

Still troubled, he mumbled something into his suit jacket, twiddling with a loose button. "It's just that...." He trailed off, shaking his head.

"Just what?"

"You're trembling, Miss Faulkner," he says, pointing at my knee, which is knocking against the other. "and perhaps I am overstepping my bounds as just your realtor, but are you quite sure you're alright?"

I tried to laugh, but the sound came out mechanically and shrill. "What possibly could be wrong? If what you say about the housing market is true, then everything should be just fine."

A shadow crossed his face as he replied with trepidation, "I don't quite know what miss, but all I can say is that what with all this rush to sell the house and your refusal to oversee the sale process...something just seems a bit off, if you don't mind me saying so."

I compressed my lips tightly into something that might've resembled a smile, and with great tension said the only thing I could: "Nothing for you to worry about, Mr. Ardmore. Go home, relax. My business will take of itself."

I started down the driveway to my car, reaching into my purse and fumbling for the keys a bit as he called after me, "Miss Faulkner, please, wait! I can't let you leave like this!"

I folded myself into the low leather seats and as the engine purred to life, I heard him shout one last thing before I pulled smoothly away from the red brick nightmare. "You can't bury all your skeletons, Miss Faulkner!"

I glanced down at the grimy little box that had spilled out of my purse onto the seat beside me, and whispered to myself as I speeded quietly down the street. "Oh, Mr. Ardmore, I bury these skeletons like I'm collecting them."