I'm Glad Your House Was Demolished | Kuffy

Four

A bedroom is as home as home can get. When done right, it reflects every part of you. The colour is likely your favorite. The shelves are filled with whatever interests you. Maybe you have a lava lamp or a dreamcatcher or something else a little out of the ordinary that gives insight on who you are. It is a place where you can go to be alone and work through life. It holds all your memories in photo albums, and secrets in journals. Those shoes you got from your first ever boyfriend, it stores those. The basketball your friends all signed when you were supposed to be moving away, that's there too. A bedroom is the most personal place anyone has. It's meant to be treasured and guarded—not shared with people who don't respect it. 

That's been running through my mind lately. The past few days have been a struggle of repressed anger and stares colder than winter itself. She touches my stuff sometimes. I know because things move. However, I try to keep my calm and let it go. I'm just happy that we've found an unspoken agreement that whenever one of us is in here, the other isn't. 

I sit on my bed, reading a book that I have to write an essay on for English, while Kira is downstairs in the living room doing...something. Right as I flip the page of Brown Girl Dreaming, my mom's knock on the door causes me to jump a little. 

"Hi, honey," she says. "Paul, Crystal, your dad, and I are going out now, and I would really appreciate it if you'd do us a favour while we're gone."

"Sure. What is it?" I ask. 

"The kitchen could use some cleaning and reorganizing. Could you please take care of that?"

"Definitely."

I set down my book and follow my mom down the stairs. I'm ready to get down into the work until I see Kira standing in the kitchen already. No. No. No. No. This was a trick. I feel played. 

"Why is she here?" I question. 

"More hands make for faster work," my mom answers with a smile. 

She gives me a kiss on the head before joining my dad and Kira's parents at the door. I stand in shock as the four adults exit and lock the door behind them, leaving me to deal with Kira on my own. They really did that. 

Although I'm highly reluctant to do anything with her, I spin to face Kira and say, "I guess we should get started."

"Okay," Kira responds. Then she glances around, asking, "Um, what do I start with?"

I reach into the drawer by the sink and take out a cloth. After soaking it in warm water, I slap the sobbing square down in her hands. 

"Wipe down the counters and table," I tell her. 

With a roll of her eyes, she gets started on doing that, and I grab the broom from the pantry to sweep all the crumbs from the floor. We both work in silence for a long time, and I only break it when I realize that she's been scrubbing the same spot on the dining table for three minutes.

"What are you doing?" I question, going over to where she is. 

She stops her scrubbing and looks over at me, a spiralling strand of hair fallen from her ponytail now hanging loose over her face, as though she's embraced being Cinderella or something. If washing a kitchen is too much for her, I can't imagine how hard life will be for her in the future.

"This spot won't come off," she states. 

I let out an exasperated exhale and grab the cloth from her hand to deal with the white speckled stain on the black table on my own. After it doesn't come off from a light swipe, I begin putting more and more elbow grease into the motion, but after five minutes, it's still not gone.