Araellion
Member
“Pack up whatever you want to keep, we’ll throw away the rest.”
Three days. That’s how long Jane was allowed to mourn in peace. No, she should be grateful that she had gotten even that amount of time. Michael was eager to get everything packed away as quickly as possible, so here they were. When was the last time she had paid their childhood home a visit? The heavy feeling in her chest told her that it had been far too long. Even after all these years it looked the same, if not a tad worn down. Father hadn’t had the energy to even sit up in bed, let alone mow the lawn or do little repairs. With a heavy sigh escaping from her lips and an empty box with the word 'keep' scribbled on it with permanent marker, Jane finally stopped procrastinating and entered her home. No, the house. This hadn't been her home for years.
A wave of feeling hit her the second she found herself in the living room. It was exactly the same. Even the stick figure drawings she had made in first grade were still framed on the walls. Something in her compelled her to draw a finger across one of the frames, tears welling up in her eyes when the finger came back completely dust free. Rubbing away the unshed tears with her other hand, Jane turned to look at the rest of the room. There was a bowl of candy, that would never be eaten, on the hardwood table and the furniture covered with flowers that had to have been considered stylish at some point, difficult as that is to imagine. There wasn't anything of value in here, so she couldn't justify loitering around for long. Letting her heart be hardened, Jane purposefully strode to the next room, pointedly ignoring the waves of sadness creeping up on her. Get in, grab stuff she wanted to keep, get out. That was the plan.
And that's how the afternoon progressed, starting with the basement and working her way up to the attic. For the most part she had taken things of monetary value, old jewelry, crystal wine glasses, and the likes. But at some point the box was starting to spill over with trinkets that she would rather die than part ways with. Jane didn't care what Michael said, the old dolls, drawings, pictures, and clothes held just as much value as the box of jewellery. Putting everything she wouldn't, couldn't, keep in its proper space, she prepared herself for the final room. Saving their childhood bedroom for last had sounded like a wonderful idea yesterday, but now she was regretting it. Each room she had gone through had chipped away at her defenses bit by bit until she felt rubbed raw.
Leaving the box in the attic since it was full anyway, she made her way back down, her will wavering more and more with each step until she came to a halt in front of the door. Building up whatever she could from the ruins of her defenses, Jane let the door swing open. God, even just standing there and looking inside made her heart get lodged in her throat. It was too much. She focused instead on the lines with names and numbers next to them on the door jamb. A watery smile crept up on her at the sight. One of the lowest lines had Michael's name crossed out with her own somehow misspelled next to it. What a memory. Jane had been young, probably around five, and had been upset that her older brother was taller than her. So at night, well six in the evening, she had snuck out of bed and written her own name next to her brother's.
Leaning her head against the door, Jane let the memories wash over her before taking a deep breath and going inside. It was so… Homey. The warm evening light was streaming through the faded curtains, painting the room in an orange glow. Everything was left like she remembered it, bunk bed in the corner with a dresser next to it and toys and books strewn around on the floor. If it wasn't for the fact that the room was as dust free as the picture frames, she would have thought mom and dad hadn't been in here since they left. Her earlier plan forgotten, she slowly walked around looking at everything and letting each item bring forth forgotten memories.
The smile on her face slipped into a frown. It wasn't the same. The memories weren't pure. Why didn't they bring forth the joy she had expected a few days ago? Despite everything she had been looking forward to coming home. But now she felt like she was drowning, all of the 'could have beens' and 'what ifs' dragging her beneath the surface. She could have come home more, could have been here, appreciated it all. Sinking to the floor, the water filling her lungs and making it difficult to breathe, she didn't struggle. Didn't try to swim to the surface.
And she wept. Wept for the memories that would forever be tainted by the bitterness of death and decay.
Three days. That’s how long Jane was allowed to mourn in peace. No, she should be grateful that she had gotten even that amount of time. Michael was eager to get everything packed away as quickly as possible, so here they were. When was the last time she had paid their childhood home a visit? The heavy feeling in her chest told her that it had been far too long. Even after all these years it looked the same, if not a tad worn down. Father hadn’t had the energy to even sit up in bed, let alone mow the lawn or do little repairs. With a heavy sigh escaping from her lips and an empty box with the word 'keep' scribbled on it with permanent marker, Jane finally stopped procrastinating and entered her home. No, the house. This hadn't been her home for years.
A wave of feeling hit her the second she found herself in the living room. It was exactly the same. Even the stick figure drawings she had made in first grade were still framed on the walls. Something in her compelled her to draw a finger across one of the frames, tears welling up in her eyes when the finger came back completely dust free. Rubbing away the unshed tears with her other hand, Jane turned to look at the rest of the room. There was a bowl of candy, that would never be eaten, on the hardwood table and the furniture covered with flowers that had to have been considered stylish at some point, difficult as that is to imagine. There wasn't anything of value in here, so she couldn't justify loitering around for long. Letting her heart be hardened, Jane purposefully strode to the next room, pointedly ignoring the waves of sadness creeping up on her. Get in, grab stuff she wanted to keep, get out. That was the plan.
And that's how the afternoon progressed, starting with the basement and working her way up to the attic. For the most part she had taken things of monetary value, old jewelry, crystal wine glasses, and the likes. But at some point the box was starting to spill over with trinkets that she would rather die than part ways with. Jane didn't care what Michael said, the old dolls, drawings, pictures, and clothes held just as much value as the box of jewellery. Putting everything she wouldn't, couldn't, keep in its proper space, she prepared herself for the final room. Saving their childhood bedroom for last had sounded like a wonderful idea yesterday, but now she was regretting it. Each room she had gone through had chipped away at her defenses bit by bit until she felt rubbed raw.
Leaving the box in the attic since it was full anyway, she made her way back down, her will wavering more and more with each step until she came to a halt in front of the door. Building up whatever she could from the ruins of her defenses, Jane let the door swing open. God, even just standing there and looking inside made her heart get lodged in her throat. It was too much. She focused instead on the lines with names and numbers next to them on the door jamb. A watery smile crept up on her at the sight. One of the lowest lines had Michael's name crossed out with her own somehow misspelled next to it. What a memory. Jane had been young, probably around five, and had been upset that her older brother was taller than her. So at night, well six in the evening, she had snuck out of bed and written her own name next to her brother's.
Leaning her head against the door, Jane let the memories wash over her before taking a deep breath and going inside. It was so… Homey. The warm evening light was streaming through the faded curtains, painting the room in an orange glow. Everything was left like she remembered it, bunk bed in the corner with a dresser next to it and toys and books strewn around on the floor. If it wasn't for the fact that the room was as dust free as the picture frames, she would have thought mom and dad hadn't been in here since they left. Her earlier plan forgotten, she slowly walked around looking at everything and letting each item bring forth forgotten memories.
The smile on her face slipped into a frown. It wasn't the same. The memories weren't pure. Why didn't they bring forth the joy she had expected a few days ago? Despite everything she had been looking forward to coming home. But now she felt like she was drowning, all of the 'could have beens' and 'what ifs' dragging her beneath the surface. She could have come home more, could have been here, appreciated it all. Sinking to the floor, the water filling her lungs and making it difficult to breathe, she didn't struggle. Didn't try to swim to the surface.
And she wept. Wept for the memories that would forever be tainted by the bitterness of death and decay.
