Forget that I wasted thirty dollars on this whiskey that tastes like piss as I set it down. I could have bought lots of good oatmeal with that.
But oatmeal doesn’t numb the emptiness inside me.
Downstairs is dirty.
The house is dirty.
I angle the blade and cut the third gash as my poorly lit room brightens, thanks to car lights.
The vehicle struggles with the hill, which brings a smile to my lips because it won’t be anyone coming here to visit me. Just some random to cause trouble.
Probably more vandals.
No one else ever comes here.
I leave my sitting position on the floor because I can’t sit on my bed in my outdoor clothes, especially when they’re stained by muddy poodle paws. I brush myself down before adjusting my curtains to block the light out.
I head for my bathroom to take a quick shower, not giving the car or those inside a single glance.
I toss my little blade onto my dresser and enter the brighter room.
The hue burns my eyes, and I immediately shut it off.
The bathroom has a new bulb because it popped the first time I took a shower here. It came with a twin, and I’ll switch it out with the one in my room tomorrow.
Because I’m too damn tired to do much else tonight.
Heaviness hovers over my eyelids as I lose my clothes, the exhaustion from work, and my side gig as a caregiver, catching up.
I didn’t leave Mrs. Bannadosi’s house after exiting the basement. I tried again to encourage her to eat… and failed again. So, instead, I waited with her through five episodes of her favorite sitcom for the nurse to show up.
Doing so taxed every fucking emotion.
Downstairs is dirty.
Ignoring the voice still, I yawn as I step beyond the frosted glass, my legs heavy.
A thought crosses my mind as water rains down on me. I hope it’s that same vandal who sticks to downstairs because I’m too fucking tired for anyone to try and get in here tonight.
I could crash any second.
CHAPTER 7
Dollie—present day
It’s a shame Gothic architecture does nothing for me. Well, that isn’t true. It gives me the chills for dozens of the wrong reasons. Maybe that’s why I’m trembling as we near the cave below the manor I grew up in. At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Home.
This place doesn’t feel like home as my eyes linger on the dark tunnel nearby and the memories that try to drag me inside. I don’t fight it, avoiding the view of the rotting manor above.
My younger voice says in my head, “Higher, Ambrose, higher!”
The rattle of chains follows my voice into the air as Ambrose pushes me higher on a swing set. The playground down there is long gone now, destroyed by local parents who didn’t want their children to suffer the same fate we did.
Who would have ever thought that wrong turn was so close to home, and if we’d just kept walking, we’d have been here, and those terrible months in that basement would never have happened.
Still lost in memories, Ambrose replies, but his voice is no more than a caressing whisper against better-forgotten thoughts.
