Page 5 of Outspoken

Amber

I JAM MY KEY INTO the front door of Brody’s double-wide mobile home in the dark. It's night and the stupid motion-sensor porch light doesn't click on. It takes a few tries before I remember the voicemail from our neighbor Frank. He fixed the door and changed the lock yesterday. The lock had been jiggly for a while, and when Paige’s stepdad kicked the door open, he splintered the frame. Though Frank has had to deal with the police, he still found the time to repair it for us. It warms my heart—a small ray of sunshine in the otherwise violent storm of the past few days. Frank has been such a great friend and neighbor to us. I need to thank him.

I glance across the street at his pale blue and white mobile home. The lights are off and his car is gone.I’ll thank him as soon as I see him.

In his voicemail, he told me he stashed the keys under a planter in his backyard, so I walk across the street, enter the code he gave me for his side gate, then locate the planter. I grab the new keys and return to Brody’s creaky wooden porch. I stick the key in the lock and turn the shiny brass knob.

Though I’ve lived here for a year and have walked through this door hundreds of times, entering now feels strange. My mind expects to find everything the same as any other day I come home.

For about two months, Paige had been living with us, so I often came home to find her cooking and making the place smell like a steakhouse. Other times, she'd be maniacally dancing around the kitchen table to her favorite EDM songs.

When my brother wasn't working out in his home gym, he was usually on the couch pretending to watch sports while dicking with his phone. The kitchen and living room are joined into one big space, so the couch was a perfect place for him to steal several glances at Paige. Whenever he noticed me frowning at him, he avoided eye contact and pretended I didn’t just catch him making goo-goo eyes at my bestie.

Smiling at the memories, I step through the doorway.

Silence envelops me. Darkness. It smells weird—coppery. I flip on a light, not prepared for the wreckage before me. This kitchen-slash-living room is not only void of all warmth and life, it’s also a mess of flipped chairs, broken glass, scattered DVDs, and—

I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands.Blood.Blood streaks down the wall near the TV console. Blood stains the tan carpet and couch. Blood is sprayed on the wooden coffee table and remote and…It practically coats the living room, mixed with broken glass from the shattered ceiling fan.

Brody’s blood. That man’s blood.

So much blood.

Memories hit me—blood on my car windshield, seeping into its spider-webbed cracks.

I force my gaze down to the walnut-brown tile, slowly closing the door and trying to keep myself from shaking. It doesn’t work.

A loud thunk. A man crying out. A dog yelping. The crunch of a car hood. Brakes squealing.

A pool of blood swallowing the crumpled man and his now-lifeless dog.

The dog died.

The man died.

Paige’s stepdad died.

Brody…

I snap my head toward the kitchen.Stay in the present.There’s the kitchen sink with a plate and a glass that need to be washed. The tiny window above the sink has closed white curtains. A cast iron pan sits on the stove. Tan counters. A toaster. A blender. The kitchen tile is brown, and the dirty living room carpet is tan, stained with blood.

Red, red blood.

My noting technique is failing, so I try a different therapy tool. Closing my eyes, I imagine all of my thoughts and anxieties turning into fluffy white clouds. I put them in the sky and watch them float away peacefully. That’s all they are—just thoughts. I let them float away as I inhale and exhale slowly. Then I open my eyes.

Put your big-girl panties on and take care of this shit.

I won’t be able to sleep until I bring order to this place. And when I wake from my nap, I don’t want to be shocked again by the blood and destruction. Determined, I drop my purse and jacket onto the kitchen table and get to work.

Not stopping to let myself think, I stuff my hands into yellow cleaning gloves and then fix the chairs. I sweep up broken glass from the tile, then use a small brush to pull shards from the carpet. Next, I grab a bucket next and a wet sponge, ready to tackle the blood on the walls. All it takes is one swipe of the sponge—the white fibers turning crimson—and I drop the bucket. My stomach churns like I’m about to puke.

Blood. Too much blood.

Life is so fragile.

Fuck this. The blood needs to be out of sight. Now. Hurrying to the laundry area near the end of the hallway, I grab as many towels as I can carry. Then, fumbling through a junk drawer, I find a droopy roll of duct tape. Back in the living room, I tape the towels on the wall to cover the stains, then I throw more onto the floor, couch, coffee table—anywhere I see blood. When I’m finished, the living room looks like an abandoned house—forgotten, lonely furniture covered to protect it from dust, cobwebs, and time.

My stomach is still churning.I can't do this.I can't. This is too much of a test. I’m barely out of rehab. Instead of cleaning up blood, I should be enjoying the 'pink cloud'—that burst of euphoria that newly recovered addicts experience. I’m supposed to be savoring another fresh start, hopefully the last one I’ll need.

---