Foxhole

The sterile, white walls envelop me in a sense of cleanliness and death. Like I shouldn't be here. I'm too dirty. The smell is the worst part though. It's a mixture of bleach and lemon-scented laundry detergent; like the kind my mother used on my clothes when I was eight. I only remember because whenever she would wash a load, I'd let my head rest on top of the basket and I'd breathe in the smell that now only makes me feel sad.

My mother died when I was nine, I think.

I stare at the white ceiling that has an off-white swirling pattern in it and wonder why I'm here. I can hear the beeping and the whirring of the machines beside my head. If I listen hard enough, I hear robotic voices, giggling to each other.

I wonder why I'm here.

I close my eyes and return to the blackness of sleep. It's opposite the place I was in before. It's not white, it's not fresh, and it's not clean. It's merely sleep; mild unconsciousness we all return to at some point. When I open my eyes again though, I am not in the room that makes me sad. I am in an unfamiliar room with bare walls and dirty floors. The paint is chipping and the wood on the ground has splinters poking up that would surely stick my feet were I to stand up. My back is against one of the water-damaged walls, underneath a broken window, and my legs are stretched in front of me. Perhaps the room before had just been a dream. Yes, that sounds nice. It was a dream. I didn't like that room.

I do stand up, and the wood does poke my feet, but I don't care. I walk toward a cracked mirror on the other side of the near-empty room and look into the smudged glass. When I do, it's like I'm looking at a stranger that I've seen many times before, but never learned the name of. The stranger in the mirror has mangled red hair that goes past her shoulders. It would be so pretty if it weren't dirty. She has clear silver eyes that probably turn gray when she's mad and a thin mouth that probably doesn't do much talking. I look into her cat-like eyes and I do not see myself. I do not know who I am.

Some part of me thinks that I shouldn't be here, just as I shouldn't have been in the other place. But I'm not sure. I look back toward the room and see a ratty bed, a lamp turned on its side, and broken chair. I should know this place; this broken, dirty, abandoned place. It's important to me, I just don't know why. Have I been here before? I should be worried, but I'm not. Why am I not worried?

I venture out of the room and find a small hallway leading two different ways. I go right and go into another bedroom. This one is empty save for a small, dirty dollhouse in the corner. I go to it and kneel down, running my fingers over the dusty plastic. I imagine the dirty pink color was once vibrant when little girls played with the toy, their wild eyes laughing with their smiles as they dressed their dolls and gave them a perfect little life that they themselves probably had. Whose dollhouse had this been?

I leave this room and go down the hallway, past the room I'd found myself in, and go into the kitchen. The stove and refrigerator have been ripped from their places, but the cabinets are intact, and an oak, six-top table and chairs is sitting, dusty, in the corner. The room is small with a window over the sink, where dust particles can be seen floating through the sunrays. I catch a whiff of blueberry muffins, but that's impossible... The oven is gone. I look around, confused, and see no food. But I don't find it weird, even though I should. I go to one of the old chairs and sit down in it, feeling it creek under me. I lean back and look at the crooked ceiling fan, imagining it turned on and spinning around, and around, and around...

"Abby?" My head perks up. I know that name. Why do I know that name? "Abigail?"

A couple of people enter the kitchen, looking at me worriedly. The men are wearing dark blue clothes with shiny metal attached to their chest, and I realize that they're policemen. I've seen policemen before. They've been here. The worry lines in their forehead make their eyes look sad, and I tilt my head in confusion.