I climbed up the attic ladder, seeing cardboard boxes stacked on top of each other, dust and cob-webs gathering in the corners of the room. To the front of the house was a rather small window whuch let in a bit of light to illuminate the room just enough to make out the shapes of the things infront of you enough that you won't trip over every other thing.
I pulled the switch, the light in the center of the ceiling flickering on, the smell of aged paper and dust filling the air.
May had said to come over to the old house to look through dad and mom's old stuff. It had been a long time since our dad died, and we had basically left the house vacant. May couldn't move into it for she lived so far away and had a life of her own in California, a family and friends and a job she couldn't let go.
She left the house to Joe, but he didn't accept it, not wanting much to do with any of the family in a long time, then, just a few weeks ago, May asked if I wanted the house. She said we should all go down to it, take what we want while I decide.
The whole house had a lot of good memories. Like baking cookies with my mother at Christmas; the Easter egg hunts in the back yard; the nights we would all sit together and watch some of my favourite films for the first time.
But then it had it's bad memories. Mom and Dad's bellowing voices as they would be fighting; Dad's abuse; my self abuse and my depression.
But it was a beautiful house. The living room had a grand fire place, the mantle piece carved from oak, dark hardwood flooring and a mini library in the corner. The kitchen had a whole length of counters, a black refridgerator with an ice box, and pots and pans and cooking utensils hanging above an island, and the floor was tiled white. The dining room was classy: a glass table able to seat twelve people, and cream carpeting.
My dad's room was the master bedroom with a king sized poster bed. It had an en suite with a jet power shower and a bath tub big enough for three.
There was a study too where my dad would always disappear to when he came home from work when we were younger. My memory of the room was vague and all I can remember was a mahogany desk.
But when I noticed the attic, my curiousity of the study faded to the backround and I grew curious about a room full of pictures, accounts: memories.
I walked over to the first box closest to me, opening it with a boxcutters, finding it to be full of photo albums. The box read "1988-1990".
I picked out an album, opening it and looking at the inside cover, it reading "Janurary-June 1988". I flicked through the start, seeing pictures of my older siblings wearing dungerees, and my mom with frizzy blonde hair. He brown eyes glinted in the picture as she had that smile I had nearly forgot. She had her bump, me inside her tummy.
I neared the end of that album, seeing a single picture of me at the last page, it me hours after I was born. I had a head full of hair, and I looked so tiny. I was wrapped in a yellow blanket, my mother holding me close and smiling so hard.
I found the "June 1988- Janurary 1989" album, nearly tearing up at how happy both my parents looked with me.
"1990"
"1994"
"1996"
My heart started to slowly dropped as I neared February and my mother faded away from the pictures which there was barely any of, and our smiles had seemed to fade. There were barely any pictures in that album, or the next five even, and that was now at when I was 13.
In the few pictures, I wasn't in many, and the few I was in, I looked a mess. I looked lost. I looked hopeless.
I skipped onto 2002. Fifteen. There were a few more pictures of me in there with Alex and the few other friends I had at the time. There were pictures of May with her friends too, them caked in make up, but they looked happy.
