What I Bare

TW: Mentions of mild gore, death, and mental health issues.

The mountains were something that I had always held near and dear. My family frequented them often; ski trips were an annual Christmas tradition that we took part in to make something out of the bitter cold. Our little cabin in the crook of the mountains became my happy place, that being the only place in the world where I could truly destress. We weren’t a particularly well-to-do family-- my mother worked night shifts at the hospital while my father ran a local cafe-- but my parents made enough to purchase and pay off our small cabin when I was a teenager. Twenty years later, it was still in better condition than most places nearby. The one thing my mother disliked about the cabin was the small, sketchy town that resided only a few miles down the road.

Our cabin looked more mysterious than it actually was; the windows had velvet red curtains and the walk was decorated with hardy evergreen shrubs. The yard wasn't much to speak of, only having two white pine trees on either side of the house, and the front door was made from solid oak with an aged, weathered look. I remember building snowmen in the yard with my sister and her boyfriend at the time, though we would usually give up if it fell over or if one of us became impatient. The inside of the house was cozy and nicely decorated, following the red velvet aesthetic that our curtains brought in. The couch was made of leather, the hearth was made of cobblestone, and the living room chandelier was, god forbid, made of deer antlers. Despite the tacky, hick addition, it was home away from home. The bedrooms followed the same aesthetic but with either too-hard or too-soft mattresses and stained wooden bed frames. The floors were wooden and the kitchen was tile, making the cabin the perfect place for a stereotypical middle-class family to call home.

Picture frames decorated the living room, sharing the memories that occurred in our little cabin away from the world. My favorite was the picture of my birthday. I had insisted that we spend the weekend at the cabin and I pelted my sister so hard with a snowball that she began to cry. I brushed it off as an accident and hugged her, but really I was mad that she complained about the trip. My sister and I fought frequently and our parents struggled to act as peacekeepers, both of them having to deal with their own issues first. I always thought that parents committed to focusing on their children before themselves, but I concluded that it took a rare breed of parents to do so. Dad dealt with his problems with Jack and coke while mom dealt with hers with late-night drives to her sister’s house. She always called them “girl's nights,” but really it was “Loretta and David” nights. I never met him, but David always seemed like an okay guy. Dad didn't like him.

I think I picked up most of my habits from my parents, with my inclination to combine various beverages that left me dazed and confused coming from my dad and my chain-smoking, money-spending habits coming from my mom. She always claimed that since she made the most money, she deserved to spend the most. Dad always lost that argument despite his vigor and willingness to best mom’s outrageous excuses. I would pretend that their fighting upset me, but in reality, I was taking note of it. The way mom’s forehead vein popped when she yelled and the way dad’s eyes became bloodshot, even the way they both made strangling gestures toward each other while they screamed. It was interesting, the way they acted in a primal rage. My sister would try and move me to a different room, but gave up after I wouldn't budge for the fifth time. They never did fight at the cabin, though.

Anyways, the cabin.

I unpacked my bag in my room like I always do, with a portrait of a dog hanging over my bed and a lamp on the nightstand beside it. We never had a dog, we only had hamsters and other small rodents, but I liked dogs. Our hamsters were small, needy, and annoying. I never liked them but my sister loved them. It was only after the fifth time they chewed up one of my books that I had enough. My sister was told that they had run away into the air vents or had gotten outside through a hole in the wall, but did you know that hamsters flush down the toilet surprisingly well?

My aunt, the one who covered for my mom when she wanted a night with David, had a small dog named Missy. Missy was a sweet old dog who loved going for walks and an excessive amount of table scraps, which probably contributed to her roundish form. I never had any grievances with her, and maybe she was the only one to achieve that feat. Some of my favorite memories were when I would dogsit her on the nights that mom and dad were especially volatile and she would sit on my lap while I ate popcorn and watched horror movies on repeat. There was something that was just so mesmerizing about the fake gore that the movies used, it seemed so… Fake. It seemed too fake.

I tended to prefer the real thing.

Sitting on the couch in the living room, I picked at the dead skin beside my fingernails and contemplated to myself: why am I here? I told myself it was because I needed a place to clear my head of the thoughts that plagued me, the ones that held gruesome memories and images that have long haunted me since my youth. With age comes a much foggier mind and with a foggier mind comes more thoughts. The cabin was my happy place, the place where I could get away from what haunted me and just be. It is beginning to feel less like that, now, since I brought those memories with me to this sacred place. Even with a crucifix on the wall, I felt no God here; only myself and my actions and my memories. I am alone and not alone. I just am.

How I began to have these thoughts eludes me. I always knew I was a strange child compared to my peers; while others played with toys or imaginary games of knights and princesses,  I kept to myself. I was left alone more often than not, but that didn't bother me much. My teachers encouraged me to socialize with my classmates and make friends, but on the times when I wouldn't outright refuse, I would sneak away when they weren't looking. I was much more inclined to play by myself, which usually consisted of sitting in a corner and reading a book.

My parents took note of my behavior much too late in life for them to help it; I was in middle school by the time the school mentioned anything to them. The only time they thought to mention anything was when Jackson Anderson, a freshman jock with a receding hairline and enough ego for his entire group of neanderthals, decided that I was to be his victim for the day. The moment he snatched my book from me in the hall and threatened to rip it was when I landed a balled fist punch into his nose. He hit the ground, a scrawny kid for his age, and I undid his orthodontist’s skillful work with the heel of my hightop converse. He didn't threaten me again, but I couldn't stop myself from laughing when I saw that his parents couldn't afford to have his front teeth replaced. After another, much more tame incident, I was placed in homeschooling. My parents sugar-coated it and said they felt that I would be safer there, but I knew the truth. My sister’s friends would flinch when I would walk by and yet I felt no sympathy for them or Jackson. They willed themselves to cross my path, then they will meet me on it. 

I caught myself drifting off, letting the thoughts overtake my mind. I turned the T.V. on and stood to make myself a drink; vanilla Crown and Dr. Pepper made for a good stress reliever, even if it gave me a nasty hangover. The T.V. lit up to the last played station, which happened to be a reality show about housewives in New York. Sitting back on the couch, I threw back a mouthful of my sad attempt at bartending and closed my eyes to fight the burn. 

“Why was it a good idea to come here,” I asked myself, staring up at the deer antler chandelier above my head, “Why would I come here when all I can do is sit?” I fixed my posture and uncrossed my legs, the rest of my drink sloshing precariously in my unsteady hand. I felt as if I needed to run and stay put at the same time. Dad would berate me in situations like these, stating that my constant anxiety made me less of a man. That was something that my father was hellbent over, being a man and upholding traditional values. I still can't understand why he was so obsessed with the idea of manhood; perhaps he missed out on becoming a man himself. 

By the time I tore myself from my fixation it had been hours. I checked my phone, an older model that I refused to spend the money to update, and it read 12:37 A.M. I looked to the window and expected lights, but I found nothing outside. I stood up and made my way into the kitchen, only a few strides from the couch, and turned on the faucet in the cast iron sink. My hands washed from deep scarlet to my normal pale tone, rinsing away my sins and misdeeds with so little as dish soap. Only then did I realize that my clothes were stained and I felt disgusting, not for what I had done but for how I had done it. My penance was to be in the clothes that witnessed my mistakes and bear the weight of them; I held no guilt for what I had done, only the realization that I had done it. The euphoria after the fact was worth the potential guilt bearing down on my soul.

What I bare is nothing more than what I had done. My visit to the cabin was unplanned, but it was the only place I could seek sanctuary. I left my sister, Eloise, bleeding out on the carpet floor with a blade lodged in her neck. I can remember it as if it was still happening; the coppery smell in the air, the crunch of the blad hitting something solid and passing through, the way she tried to scream, and nothing but a liquidy gurgling came out. I would do it all again if I could, not that she deserved it. I learned that in my life, free will was more than just living by our ideas. It was the exception from law, from the rules that society had set for us. I gave the middle finger to those who think they are above me and I did as I please, is that so wrong? Even as my sister was dying, I knew I was smiling at my act of rebellion against the world. They should’ve found her by now, my parents coming home from a business trip to find her lying on the floor in a pool of her vitality. I can only imagine the way that her skin has lost color and how her eyes must’ve rolled back into her head, it seems so exhilarating! My mother is probably breaking down and my father is downing a bottle of Jack to deal with the shock, all while I sit here and reminisce about my statement to the world.

What I bare is nothing but what I make of it, and I choose to make it my elegy to the world.