Little Bit of Light

Ch2 Home?

The car was now parked in the weed ridden, dirt path that serves as our driveway. How is it that you can see the dagger hurdling towards you from a mile away, and still the worry and wonder impales your heart with the blade? Well, the blade is my awareness, but fear isn't the steel. A weight presses against my ribs and temples, the energy and hope within me trying to escape this hell hole too. I rub them, willing them to come back.

Behind the glare of the car's glass pane, the splintered, wooden boards seem to stretch away from the house like a polarized magnet, this place repels everything with enough force to send things soaring into the scorching flames of the sun. Tree upon tree upon tree, sucking up the day's friendly glow, casting ghastly shadows upon the withered remnants of the once gleeful home.

I realize that I'm making Hal late for work, not that she would complain, and overcome all the screaming shrills in my head telling me not to go towards that evil. One foot in front of the other Genevieve, that's all it is.

The large, smooth rectangle presses against my outer right thigh. "Here's your phone back Hal" I kept it during the drive, not wanting her to change her mind. She slowly, unsurely takes it back and bites her bottom lip as I collect myself along with my things.

" Don't worry about me Hal, I'll be fine, I always have been," even though that was debatable. She gives me a small, sad smile. The smile that says 'if only there was another way,' so I gave her the ' I know' glance and walked towards the black hole of happiness, also known as my mother.

Weeds, rooting on the dirt trail beneath me seemed to pull me backwards, with each step, catching around my black boots. Even the plants were trying to save me now.

When I finally reached the cracked, rain bleached steps of my porch, I took an uneven breath. It had been about a month since I had come back while she was here, and it's always been at night when she was asleep. Maybe I'm stressed out for nothing though, she might not be here. Just maybe.

I turn around to see if Hal has left yet, though I already know the answer. I give her a tight, lip smile and wave, releasing her from her duty to make sure I'm not the girl found in a ditch on the 10 o'clock news tomorrow. She waves back and backs through the brush, her boss isn't going to be happy today.

I turn back to the tattered screen door in front of me. One foot in front of the other Genevieve, she still might not even be here. The door unsticks as I tug on it, pull it behind me and rest it on my hip.

My keys clink together as they enter their slot, turn and pop.

Baby steps Gena.

With a heavy shove, the door gives and flings open. The stale air hits my face with the pungent whiff of liquor and the knowledge that I'm not alone. Once again, sirens blare in my ears, warning me of the trouble just feet away.

First I see feet, one dangling a sock from the toes, the other bare and inches from knocking another beer from what passes as her coffee table to the patchy, hard wood. Next legs, both flung, erratically around the couch, sweatpant-cut-offs covering just enough.

Then torso. A tattered, Cotten shirt clings to her sticky frame, spilled beer might as well be gorilla glue. Her face, so similar to mine, but so distorted. The same huge eyes, now closed reside in her skull, a glazed over, light turquoise. Mine are a deep teal overall. Our noses, the same. Her hair, the same tint as mine, but darker. Mousy brown rather than sandy blonde.

We've always had the same waves in our hair, wide, dainty curls. Her's are now tangled with beer-glue and who knows what else.

At least she's asleep. No more bottles shattered, thrown while babble screaming towards me tonight. One of the perks of her being a drunk, no accuracy.

Countless nights I've spent dodging bottles, and picking up the remnants. Whenever she wakes up, or gets dropped off, she remembers what happened and instead of confronting it, she throws bottles. With each bottle, a fraction of whats left of her sanity clings on, and shatters on the stained, tattered wallpaper too.

Floor boards creak underneath me as I distance myself from alcohols latest comatose victim.

I shuffle through this week worth of trash coating our floor to my room, mostly consisting of beer bottles, cans, blunts and cigarettes. What a joyful home I have.

Sometimes it's nice to stop and ponder what my life would be like if I had a normal upbringing, it's useless in the long run, but it gives my mind something to do. Lawyer dad and doctor mother would have been great, money to go around with love as a package deal, enveloping me and swaddling me in a comforting childhood.

Nice thoughts slip my mind as I reach my door, and step through. Just the same as I left it. Just through the door, on the left is my withered, white dresser. Notebooks and books tier up the wall with my coasters and teacup strewn across the towers. Behind that, my bed sits running parallel to the back wall by the paneled window, semi-sheer, black curtains flowing framing the mattresses. On the right side of the room a cast iron, vanity table sits next to my closet, serving as more of a desk, containing my tea bags, a candle and more book tiers.

I've always thought it was funny how void of color my room is. My walls, cement grey. Floors, dark stained, and weathered. Everything, a nineteenth century, grainy, black and white snapshot of something that was bright and happy, before.

But it's home.

What does that word even mean? So meaningful and meaningless tangled into four little letters.

There's that saying 'home is where the heart is,' but there are four chambers to the heart. Each reaches for something different, sometimes choosing more than one place or thing. So many possibilities. Still none choose this hell hole.

I finally snap out of my life trance, back to reality as the liquor burns my sinuses.

The colors of the sun, nearly absorbed by the forest, glow through the window. I unlatch the hooks, and open, letting the ghosts of the wind pull the pure, pine air into this cage.

Laying down, the songs of the spirits lull me to sleep, releasing me from twisted reality and replacing it with the joy and wonder of the limitless, boundless borders of the dream world.

My real home.

__________