Hello Darkness

Chapter Twenty-One

I hardly remember the ride. But just as the truck rolls to a stop, I step out, slamming the door behind me and storm up the stairs. My hands stripe the gold door knob with black streaks. The door vibrates against my palms as I shut it in his face, locking the deadbolt. I rest my back on the door, all the pain ready to flood out. I grip my sides and curl to the ground. Tears prick my ducts in their all too familiar gesture. Each of Breccan's raps on the door send a surge through me like he is trying to pound the emotion out.

"Charley let me in..." he says softly, but I don't respond. Nothing he can say will erase the sting. I feel every word of it. My body shakes as the tears explode. I couldn't speak if I wanted to. I stand knowing he won't leave and walk to the bathroom to clean up, at the very least, I won't be able to hear his voice. And he won't be able to hear my sobs.

I hold it together just long enough the wash the grease off my hands, the sink bowl turning an inky black. Alma's going to kill me for that later.

I step out into the hall and pass Alma's door, her and Derek nowhere to be seen, and stop right between the two doors at the end of the hall. To the left my room, where I intended to go. To the right, the door that has been locked for the past year. I pull the small skeleton key from the small table drawer outside the room and open the door.

It still smells like her perfume—a flower garden. It's brighter than I remembered. Light blue walls with decorative white trim. The bedspread folded neatly with one corner pulled back as if she'd fully expected to use it that night.

Dust coats the dresser and vanity, even Alma couldn't summon the courage to come in here to clean. I walk to the bed, my fingertips tracing the yellow and blue flowers decorating it the bedspread. I pull back the sheets and ignore the dust dancing in the beam of sunlight streaming through the window.

It is warm under the heavy blankets and so soft. "Nana..." I whisper. "I wish you were here. I don't know how much longer I can deal with this." I sniff and wipe the tears, dust clinging to my cheeks. "I feel so alone, and no one understands. I'm broken Nana, and I—I don't know how to fix it."

I don't know how long I slept for. An hour? Perhaps more. But my throat is scratchy, and my mouth feels like sandpaper when I wake up. From the dust, no doubt.

I flip my legs over the side of the bed and my foot knocks something beneath it. I bend down to find a wooden box—one of my grandfather's creations from long ago. Its surface burned and printed with loops and swirls, stained the color of espresso. My heart flutters as I consider opening it. It feels like such a violation, going through my grandmother's things. I suppose it will happen someday and this box is probably just full of pictures. And I can really use a warm smile. A happy memory from the past.

As I crack the box open a perfume of vanilla and almonds puffs out. It isn't filled with pictures exactly, but newspaper clippings: mine and Alma's graduation, when Alma's volleyball team went to state, an article on the school play Romeo and Juliet I'd been a part of. Each crumbling article is a snippet of the past. I lay them out on the bed reading over each. Remembering. Paper after paper I pull from the box documented our lives. Dozens of them. One catches my eye.

It's older, tattered like someone had read them over many times. I unfold the brittle paper. The peaks of the house were just as I'd remembered them. Everything was how I remembered it. The garden out front, the birdfeeder my grandfather hand carved and painted for my mother, and there is Yvette, only half seen through the open garage door. It's one of the articles from my parent's murder.

After all these years why would she keep such an awful memory?

I get to the bottom of the box. A small manilaenvelope is all that is left. I flip it in my hand. Unfamiliar writing isscratched on the back: Richard Beckett. My heart nearly stops as I study my father's name. I run my finger over the name before slipping it beneath the lip. A small silver key slips from the envelope. A tiny block "S" engraved on one side and the number 23 on the other.

I carefully fold all the articles, placing the ones about my parents' murder on the top and stick the key in my pocket and walk out to the main room, locking the door behind me.

I sit on the couch twisting the key in my hand. Of all the things, I can't remember my father using a key for anything other than the doors or the car. And it was far too small to be either. Maybe a filing cabinet?

I rub my temples, my muscles begging for some release. I don't bother to see if Breccan is still waiting outside before heading out to the garage. The grass tickles my bare feet. I slide on my gloves and begin my workout, adding in a rotation of defensive moves.

A string dangles from the ceiling and it hits me. A memory of me carrying an old briefcase up the rickety wooden ladder flutters from the file in my brain. Nana had me pull it from her closet, claiming it took up too much space.

I pull the string opening the door and slide down the collapsible ladder. I test the first step, it groans under the pressure, I hope it will hold my weight. It has been years since I've had any reason to venture up here. Tiny splinters stab my feet. I fumble around the dark attic, banging my shins on solid shadows—maybe I should have brought a flashlight. Blood trickles down my shin, but I don't stop tossing boxes and old Christmas decorations from one corner to the next. Finally, my hand finds something leather and square. I toss it until I find the handle. It is heavy, no wonder I'd almost fallen off the ladder.

As I begin my descent, the first step cracks and a sharp pain shoots up my leg. I cry out in and lose my balance, my eyes closing as I brace for the shatter of pain when I meet the concrete floor.