Chapter 2 ~ pg. 2

I pushed through the rusted gate and ambled up the long drive. The once neatly manicured yard was overgrown with weeds and other debris. Dark vegetation sprung from every crack and every fissure of the dilapidated drive.

As for the house, the wet pacific climate and harsh ocean air hadn't been kind in my absence. The five thousand-square foot Victorian was a combination of rust and sodium-lime deposits. Brown meets green. Almost as if some pesky kids had unloaded on the house with a barrage of aged avocados. Thick foliage had attacked the house from every angle, crawling up, around, and through the gray brick.

I walked up the cragged drive and to the front door. A solitary brass six hung just above the door frame. There was once a brass seven. As well as a brass zero. Vines spider-webbed across the front door like organic crime scene tape and I cut these away with my keys. The door had warped to the frame and I had to literally kick the door in. It gave on the second try and a wave of musty air washed over me.

I took a step inside the foyer and stopped. I hadn't touched anything in the wake of my parents' death. I'd just left. Fled. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt where people wash their clothes, get sick from drinking the water, get bit by snakes, get eaten by hippos, contract malaria, West Nile, and countless other deadly diseases.

There was a small table to my immediate left. A pink vase centered the small table; the remnants of a paper-thin stem silently listing over its porcelain edge. I ran my finger over the table, the years of dust coloring my finger in a thick black.

I left the front door open and entered a small walkway. I traced my fingers against the eggshell brown walls, which had been an eggshell white last I remembered.

I came to a set of two doors, one led to the basement, the other a small bathroom. I poked my head into the bathroom and flipped the light. The two seventy watt bulbs were clouded with dust and barely illuminated the small room. The floral wallpaper had begun to peel in many places, its glue well into its late thirties. There was a soft noise and I stared at the small sink. Water slowly began to bead around the head of the faucet before giving way to a single tear.

I shook my head. Those tears could have filled a swimming pool over the course of eight years.

I turned the faucet on. After five seconds, there was a loud rattle that shook through the foundation of the large house. The pipes screamed and the house shuddered. I held onto the door frame.

It would be slightly ironic if I'd left for eight years, come back for less than an hour, and the house slides into the Puget Sound. Or would that just be a terrible coincidence? Or just unfortunate?

The rattling slowly began to subside and after a good minute water spurt from the faucet. It was brown. I watched for over a minute as the water remained brown. I turned the water off.