Broken Homes

The house's exterior was neat and clean. The porch swing tipped back and forth without a creak. All my good memories seem to have lined up beautifully out here. I turned to the garden, I remember planting the flowers with my mother. My dog, Lucky, loved the garden too. Me and him would sit there for hours watching the little bugs. I look up to the oak tree beside it. It stands strong. A little tire swing is wrapped around one of its branches. My little sister and I used to play here all day long.

I remember our backyard. The fence kept it enclosed. I was never tall enough to climb over it. Down beside it, if I traveled far enough, was a little stream. I remember splashing in the cool water on hot summer days. Finally, I looked at the door. Despite the memories that lied inside, the door was always welcoming. It wore a perfect smile. It always did. I stepped up the porch. The mat in front of me spoke, ‘Welcome home’ as if this place was ever a home. Homes are supposed to be filled with love and kindness, not hate. I really never thought I would come back here. My therapist told me to remember this place was just a house, it wouldn't hurt me. I didn't come here for her. She probably wouldn't recommend it. I'm not 100% sure why I came back here. Maybe to laugh in the face of death.

I stepped into the house and was almost immediately waft with a scent I remembered but couldn't quite place. The walls are cracked and the lights flicker ominously. Fear runs up my spine. I used to hide whenever I was scared, especially as a little girl. I stare up at the ceiling and find they match the walls, their paint peels and cracks, as homes often do with time. The smell continued to follow behind me. I forget he died here, so of course it smells of death.

I find myself in the living room. The once white couch is covered in stains and dust. Probably from the years of mistreatment. I still remember when we first got the couch, my sister and I were allowed to touch it. In the corner was my father's chair, a recliner he had gotten from the furniture store for sale. Empty beer bottles lay alongside it. I turned my face away from it. I can still remember the stench of his breath. At the end of the living room was a TV. It was box shaped, an older model that was found at a garage sale that was half the price it was worth.

I left the room and found the kitchen. I know many women speak of kitchens as if they’re good wine, as if they effortlessly took the time to put it there. My mother spent a lot of time here. We always called it her happy place. It was. The garden too. She always said the garden was more like home than the inside. I always agreed. The dining table stood in the corner, four little wooden chairs in front of a circled table. I remember the time he got so mad he pushed the table right into my stomach. I don't specifically remember what happened. I was probably being a smart aleck. Everything was always my fault.

My father's office was the room closest to the front door. He was always hunched over his desk working. We knew not to disturb him, but even when we didn't, he was mad. Like the time I sprained my wrist. I chuckle as if lighten in the mood. I climbed a tree. Our ball got stuck in its branches. I fell and slammed onto the cold hard ground. I'm lucky I didn't break anything serious.

I continue walking and find the staircase. I walk along its uneven edges. My father had to rebuild it at least once or twice, I can't remember why. The steps creak beneath my weight. This is just a house, I remind myself. When I arrive upstairs, I notice sunlight shining out from a room. Not just any room, my little sister’s and I room. I enter and find our little beds. I sit on mine, the bed groans and dust floats up before it settles back down. The wallpaper peels back, revealing the color it used to be. Cobwebs cover the corners. I remember the spiders were always friendly, despite my fear of them. I exhale and inhale then shake my head.

“Why am I here?” I say to the empty house.

Maybe it was to prove I'm not afraid anymore. Maybe for some comfort. As if the memories could triumph over the bad ones. I close my eyes, if I listen closely, I can still hear my parents arguing. I can still hear my strong-willed mother crying after he had beaten her. They, though married, always slept in separate rooms. Sometimes she would come into my room and cuddle me, comforting me. She told me everything would be okay, we both knew it wouldn't.

I look up by the ceiling and swallow hard. I noticed in the corner of my eye something blue in the closet. I picked it up. My old journal. I flipped through the pages before throwing it across the room. My hands shake. Not again, not here. I ran downstairs.

“It's just a house,” I repeat.

Anxiety shakes me, forcing me to swallow. I continued running, when I tripped. I always hated that staircase. I slam against the floor. Pain surges in my body.

“I can’t do this,” my voice shakes.

I crawl away and press my face into my knees.

“Abi…gail,” his voice slurs.

“Abi…g…ail,” his voice creeps closer.

I covered my ears. It couldn’t be. No, no! He's not here. He’s dead. The bastard’s dead! Suddenly, the room becomes completely silent. A warmth envelopes in my chest. I’ve never felt warm here, there was only darkness. Always darkness.

“Abigail,” a voice says, calmly, “What are you doing here?”

“I thought I...I could handle it. I thought…Lord...I...the memories," my voice trembles.

“My child."

Tears form in my eyes as I turn my face to Him. He is crouched in front of me, a light surrounding him. I fall into His arms and cry into His shoulder. I cry over being scared. I cry because I’m not okay. I cry for my sister. I cry for my mother. I cry because I couldn’t save them and it’s all my fault. I cry because I’m broken and still need some time to heal.

“Do not be afraid, my child, I am with you,” He tells me and kisses my head.