First 500-ish words are written by “Doom and Gloom in Austin”
The middle 500-ish words by http://almosthuman1blog.wordpress.com/
The final 500-ish words written by me.
I don’t know why I have come back to this place. The old two-story building before me has never been a home in any sense of the word. It was more of a monument of suffering; a temple of affliction with my father as the high priest. There isn’t a room in this place that hasn’t been decorated with my blood at one point or another.
Now, he’s gone and this house stands as the last testament to his brutality. So, why am I here? To find any shred of decency and happiness within and rescue it? Not likely. That all died with my mother when I was still an infant. What, then? Maybe to get one last look around before I sell it off? Or maybe, just maybe…to destroy this place.
I push the thoughts of setting the house ablaze aside and make my way up the steps to the porch. My hand grows ice cold with dread as I reach for the doorknob. It turns with a metallic grind and I push the door open. The smell of age and dust and stale cigarette smoke hits me in the face. My stomach lurches a bit with childhood panic. My skin prickles in rememberance of each and every cigarette burn mark given to me.
I slowly walk in and look around. Other than a thin layer of dust, nothing has changed in this place in 15 years. Every piece of furniture, every picture, every memento is exactly where it was when I was a child. Even the bloodstain on the rug in front of the fireplace is still where I last left it; black with age. I couldn’t say what I supposedly did or didn’t do to ‘earn’ that particular beating. They all ran together like a flipbook of pain. Each beating was partnered with the threat of much, much worse if I ever told anyone.
No, I still don’t know why I have come back to this place. It’s serving as nothing but a bruising reminder of my past. This place was filled with nothing but rage and fear and, in all the years, I never knew why.
Perhaps it’s best that this place and the past it harbors should be brought to the ground and removed from the world. Just blow out the pilot lights on the stove and let the place fill with gas. One spark and this place is consigned to Hell.
My footsteps carry me through the rest of the living room and into the dining room. Like the living room, nothing has changed here. The familiar setting brings forth the past in my mind once more. I shove aside the fresh wave of memories and continue to the door that leads to the kitchen.
Pushing it open, I stop short. Within the center of an otherwise unchanged kitchen is a large, round hole. Cautiously, I approach the edge and look down into the void.
The rhythm of ragged breath stutters as the sides of the hole undulate before me. Heat oozes over the jagged edges and pool around my feet, grasp at my knees. The kitchen swims around me and I begin to lose my balance. A hand grips my shoulder, pulls me from the edge. I am too frightened to turn. I slide to my knees, hands grasping the edge of the pit. I almost allow myself to topple forward into the gaping hole, but I pause. Anger grows inside me and I stand, the hand still pulling at my shoulder, and I allow myself to turn.
“Jacob.” It was him. My father, long and thankfully dead, stands before me, hand on my shoulder, smiling in my face as though nothing but love had ever passed between the two of us. “It’s been a long time, my son. Too long.”
“Father.” My tone is curt, cut short intentionally for fear if I allow myself to speak freely, I would unleash years of anguish, terror and pain in a single gasp and our conversation would end. Despite this man’s horrific actions toward me in the past, I want to hear what he has to say. I need it. I crave it.
“I was wondering when you would come back here, Jacob.” I allow myself to be led to the dining room where my father pulls out a chair for me. “Please,” he says. “Sit.” I, as always, do as I am told. Now the old man places both his hands upon my shoulders, squeezing, patting as if he were making sure I am real. He exhales and mumbles something about how good it is to see me here. The room begins to smell of death and the heat from that hole in the kitchen roils its way into the dining room. “I suppose you have some things you would like to discuss. About the past?”
“Yes,” I say forcefully, surprising myself. “I do.” I feel the floor rumble. Hear floor boards crack. I turn to face the old man, but he turns away too quickly for me to catch his eyes. It seems his flesh leaves a smear in the air as he steps away from me.
“Your mother and I missed you. You realize that, don’t you? She was always so fond of you. She got so angry when you left.”
My skin begins to flush. Sweat pops up in beads on the backs of my hands. Whether it was anger or the rapidly increasing temperature in the room, I couldn’t tell. “My mother died,” I shake my head, sweat dribbling into my eyes. “I had to leave. I had to make your abuse stop. I had to protect myself. I had to leave.” I begin to feel sick. Father whips around and slams his open palms down on the table before me. His eyes burn red and his flesh drips from his face.
“What if I told you your mother never died?”
The stink of vomit is strong and my eyes leak tears as I bat my lids and lift them. On my knees before regurgitated breakfast, I bend in a salutation to terror, give homage at the shrine of lost hope. I haven’t left the kitchen, and there is no hole, no yawning mouth of Hell with my father guard and keeper. The floor is only floor, a chipped and dull reminder I’m home.
I struggle up from the linoleum feeling fifty years past my age. With one hand on the counter I let my head hang, my eyes close, numbered breaths passing through my nostrils and across my open lips. My therapist gave me this method and I’d become an expert, the stillness and awareness of myself an apt tool to counter the effects of visits from long-dead dad.
This episode has hit me harder, and recovery seems long, and even when I straighten and stare around the mildewed room my mind lingers on the specter’s claim.
Could my mother be living? I want it to be true, want someone I can touch and hear and feel, want it like I want my heart beating. But my father was a liar, untruth in his every cell. Though he is only my own creation now, I cannot trust him still.
My legs are unwieldy rods as I walk the path my old man led me; kitchen doorway to dining room to table, where I sit at my place without decision. The table’s coat of dust is pocked with oases of fuzzy mold and decay seems to thicken the air, yet I touch the surface, run my palms along the edge, watch the tracks follow after my fingers.
In the corner rests my mother’s favorite chair. My father told me she got it from her parents, who inherited it from a relative far in the past, and it’s a solid, dark-stained thing with leaves carved down the legs. Father sat there sometimes, after he’d worked through a mood, and stared, gaze not present, hand caressing one wooden arm.
I’m going to take this piece of furniture, I decide, and stir up filth as I rise. The chair is grey with dust, yet seems fine under the film and I imagine it will look well where I live. As I lift it, hands at the sides of the seat, a leg comes loose and clatters on the floor, rolling to a stop against the toe of my shoe. Sadness overtakes me, like I’ve let my mother down, and I ease the chair on its back to have a look at what went wrong.
There is something next to the hole where the leg should have been. Dry, smooth, held by a single rusty thumbtack; a folded and yellowed paper, my name in faded blue ink. With effort I work the tack free and open the paper, deep creases like a dry creek-bed through slanted letters that look the same as the writing from the margins of the sole cookbook we’d owned, the one I used to hold and page through when father wasn’t home.
My sweet little one . I love you always. I’m sorry. I hope we find each other someday.
I am filled. First with relief, then hot anger, and clammy despair, and my skin prickles as optimism takes hold inside me like a foreign growth. I will pursue, will follow the longing. I have reason now, and resolve to understand whether the new growth is like a cancer or the beginning of a life far beyond benign.