An Empty Bedroom Filled with Memories

Content warning: hints of suicidal thoughts or drug use

I walk into the guest room. His room. No. The guest room. It’s just a guest room now. 

But a guest room is supposed to be impersonal. It should be decorated so that anyone could sleep here. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to throw anything out. I couldn’t even paint the walls or buy different sheets. 

He always hated when I told him to clean his room. Then he got even madder when I would lose patience and clean it for him. All those times I walked by and got annoyed at the clutter and piles of dirty clothes. Now I’d do anything to get those back. 

It took me three months to even step into this room. Then for the next three months after that I came in here as soon as I woke up in the morning and would just sit on the floor for hours. I honestly don’t know what I was hoping for. Of course I wanted him to just show up again like nothing ever happened, but the part of me that knew that wasn’t possible was hoping that maybe he would talk to me some other way. Sadly, neither of those happened. 

It’s been almost eight months I’ve spent here without him. The house feels so quiet and empty. I always thought he was so quiet when he was here, but now it’s pure silence. 

I haven’t touched anything in his room since he’s been gone. I couldn’t even bring myself to clean it. I had to call my sister Mary. I knew she’d be the only person tough enough to just throw all the personal items in boxes that I’ll probably never be able to sort through without falling apart. 

But she still left a lot. All his old movie posters are gone but the dent from when he thought it was a good idea to practice swinging a baseball bat in this tiny room still remains. The duct tape is also still on the window from the time he was playing darts with his friends and put a crack in the corner. I’m pretty sure he thought I never noticed it. 

I walk over to his bed. Look at the blue plaid blanket that matches the sheets. I nearly lost my mind screaming at Mary when I found out she washed them. I knew it had to be done, but I wasn’t ready. It was the only thing left in the room that still smelled like him. The closet had already been emptied out with all his clothes and shoes packed away. As soon as she washed them it felt like his entire presence had been wiped from the room. 

I run my finger along the edge of his bedside table. It’s got a dozen dents from the nights he would stumble in here and knock it over or shove it out of the way or throw it. 

I move my hand over to the mattress on the side he used to sleep on. I work my way under the mattress and lift it up. I peer underneath it to see the little indent that’s still in the mattress from where he used to hide it. No wonder he didn’t think I would notice a crack in the window when I never noticed this. I didn’t even suspect anything until I came in and found him. 

I let the mattress fall back down and sit on the bed. I can just see the edge of the driveway if I look out the window from here. My room doesn’t have a view of the driveway. I never saw him come home late or even saw how bad he looked when he would fumble with his key for nearly ten minutes before being able to open the door. 

I was always a heavy sleeper. The few times he did wake me up from falling down the stairs or knocking something over he would just say he was tipsy but that one of his sober friends dropped him off. And I would stupidly assume someone had just driven his car over in the morning, or had driven him here and then walked home. He was so convincing. He could never lie when he was younger. I guess he grew out of that at some point when I wasn’t paying attention. 

If only I had turned the lights on I would have been able to tell from his eyes that he wasn’t okay. Mary always tells me not to blame myself and that no one knew, but I feel like I of all people should have noticed that something was wrong. 

Every night I lie awake trying to remember if I missed any signs. I’m sure there were a ton and I was just too stupid to notice. I should have figured it out a month before he was gone when I checked the box in my bedroom where I keep all my extra tips and found it empty. He kept telling me how sorry he was and that it must have been one of his friends he had over. I never even mentioned it to anyone. I didn’t need Mary scolding me for not putting it in the bank straight away. 

It took her weeks to convince me that he was the one who took the money and not one of his friends. I just couldn’t believe he would do something like that. The worst part is he probably could have just asked me for money at any time and I would have given it to him. And whatever lie he spun about what he needed it for I would’ve believed. 

I’m so gullible. Always have been as Mary would remind me. I let him get away with a lot. I never reprimanded him for the little things. Maybe if I had taught him that his actions have consequences he wouldn’t have acted so recklessly. Then again maybe none of it would have mattered and everything would have ended up exactly the same. I spot a car in the driveway, so I stand back up and head downstairs.