Home Sick

TW: Violence, Mental Health

I've never been one to be homesick. I seem to have an odd apprehension about being home, actually. I haven’t been home in years and, if it hadn’t been for a few cataclysmic life events, I’m sure that streak would have been continued. It's not that home was ever a dreadful place, one that you would despise or fear returning to for any particular or horrible reason. In fact, home could be considered quite normal, if not a little drab and mundane. My parents were caring, if a little detached from things of modern interest. I grew up in a small home, settled at the end of a dirt road in which the dust drifting from it never seemed to settle. The grass was often dry, a crunching yellow mass of it surrounding the old home. It was far too much landscape for my parents, elderly in comparison to those of my classmates, to maintain. The heat baked the earth, rain only quenching its thirst on scarce occasions. 

I was born on one of those rare days, the sky crowded with angry, dark clouds. Their relentless pelting a merciful break for the heat. A sweeping in of storms were there to welcome me into this world, while coincidentally keeping my parents stuck where they were, far from the closest hospital. While nature raged outside, it also raged within, and I was born into the house I would rarely leave for the first eighteen years of my life. Possibly that reason, that feeling of entrapment, is at fault for my lack of warmth toward this place.

With a sigh, I slam the door to my car shut and heft a duffel of my few belongings onto my shoulder. I used to have more, but Facebook marketplace and a yard sale took care of most of the tangible things I care for; a messy break-up and an HR meeting took care of the intangible. I stare up at the house, shielding my eyes from the ever-present sun and squint toward the creaking screen door. 

“Welcome home, Sweetpea,” a sweet, southern twang rings out from the porch.

I smile, “Hi, mom.”

I walk up to the porch and am suddenly hit with a wave of guilt at the sight of her gnarled fingers gripping a cane. The years passed by, not necessarily in a whirlwind, but rather a blending that made it seem inconsequential. Milestone after milestone happened, birthdays with new friends were celebrated and moving trucks were packed, each taking me further from this place; further from my parents, now aged in the house I hold an unfathomable distaste for. 

Mom waddles in for a hug and I grin against the tufts of gray hair tucked under my chin. She rubs my back with a warmth I realize I’ve missed. A cat weaves between us, meowing. The old family pet is still here to get his daily meals. I pull away from mom and pet him as he slinks by, but he turns to hiss at me.

“It’s nice to know you haven’t forgotten where you came from, but it seems Whiskers forgot you,” she laughs and turns for me to follow her into the house. 

I hold the door open for her and hear it clang shut behind me to an almost unchanged living space. Floral sofas and dusty rugs fill the space, framed photos of distant times and family members adorn the walls. A crystal dish filled with candy of the hard variety sits on a coffee table. Yellowed, crochet doilies sit beneath anything touching a flat surface. This home is a time capsule for decades-long, expired design trends and a childhood of prosaic days.

A rasping sound comes from the armchair facing the television in the room beyond the entrance space. I walk in to see my dad, sunken into the cushions and bearing an age-withered smile. Resting a hand on his frail shoulder, I lean down to give him a smile and he takes my face in shaky hands. He just stares into my eyes, an earnest, but lost look holding the space between us.

“Sweetpea, he doesn’t speak much these days,” mom sighs. 

His hands fall from my face and I share a sad smile, “What’s wrong with him?”

I turn to my mom, she’s perched precariously on her cane. She wears a worn, striped apron over her powder blue dress. Her gaze shifts between the two of us, wary.

“His mind has left him. Only his body and spirit is left with us,” she says and nods her head for me to follow into the kitchen.

Tonight, we sit at the table meant to serve four, it only sits mom and I. Dad stays in his chair, light of varied colors flickering across his face in the dimming light. I eat a light meal and help mom clean up the kitchen. I go to bed early, my head feeling like the rapidly changing scenes on the television of the living room. She warns me that she hasn’t been able to get downstairs in years, so the room may be dirty.

A layer of dust spins into the air when I make it down the creaking stairs and plop into my childhood bed. I’d tried the lights, but it seems the bulb died ages before I arrived. Staring at the popcorned ceiling, moonlight streaks shift through the narrow windows lining the top of the subfloor bedroom. The light paints visions above my head. 

I see the tossed cream bedsheets of my master bedroom, feet entangled. Ruby red, perfectly polished toes stick out from the sheets, caressing the familiar legs of the man I love. He sits up quickly and throws a shielding arm over the woman connected to the pedicure. That familiar arm, my man’s arm, protects a woman invading our bed.

My stomach churns and I feel sick. Before I can jolt from the bed and run to spill my heartbreak into the toilet, a spot on the ceiling catches my eye. I’m not sure why, but it’s peculiar. I feel compelled to mark it, to make sure I remember to inspect it in the morning. I rummage through the side table, taking a gamble that a pen remains from the years of teenage journaling. Fishing one out, I step onto the table and stretch toward the spot, drawing a quick circle around it. Settling back into bed, I leave the pen within an arm's reach in case I need it again.

_______________

The next morning I awake to find the little sunlight filling the room illuminates the spot I circled on the ceiling. It’s a small spot, an odd, dark color. I’m not immediately concerned, but I’ll be sure to monitor it. I don’t need a leak causing the ceiling to fall on me in my sleep. One more inconvenience might push me over the edge. I slip from under the old sheets and pad upstairs. Another mundane day in the house begins, reminiscent of my childhood. 

I pass dad, where he remains in his chair, even in the morning light. I make a pot of coffee and join mom on the front porch. She’s rocking in a chair and we share comfortable silence. Looking across the vast expanse in front of us, I notice Whiskers sitting on the car my parents share. It’s in disrepair. I sip from the mug in my hands and decide not to mention it. It’s not like they could use it or that they would have much of a reason to. Mom interrupts my thoughts.

“How are you, Sweetpea?”

I hum and drum my fingers, settling on honesty.

“I’ve been better,” the silence is full and expectant, so I continue. “It’s really just been one thing after another. First, Alan left. Then, I find a new apartment, just in time for my job to cut me loose. I could barely afford the place on my own, let alone while job hunting.”

I sigh.

Mom gives me an earnest look, “Sweetpea, why did they let you go at work? I thought you were doing well.”

It was my dream job. A gig as a staff writer in a big city, sharing my words on important topics with mass amounts of people. It was perfect. It was all perfect, until it wasn’t. I look over at mom and concern is etched into her face. She looks as if she is about to stop herself, but decides to continue. 

“You know, reading your latest pieces, I did sense a,” she pauses. 

I arch an eyebrow and she finishes, “a shift.”

I’m not sure why but at this moment, my stomach feels as if it's bottomed out and I excuse myself quickly. I run down to the bedroom and to the connected toilet, kneeling in front of it. I wait, but the upheaval doesn’t come. I drift back into the room and plop on the bed, massaging my temples. It’s now that I spot a new spot on the ceiling alongside the growing, existing one. My heart is still pounding, but I fetch the pen from the side table and draw circles over the two spots. The previous marking now covered by the growing spot and the new one on the opposite side, framing the small bed.

I fall back into the sheets and my mind begins to recount the move from my perfectly curated, shared apartment to the cheap studio across town. The pit in my stomach grows like the spot on the ceiling as flashes of memory show me the few boxes waiting to be loaded into my car and driven to the empty, cold apartment. I can once again see the window of my bedroom, once occupied with days of warm memories, now framing the woman taking my spot and watching from above. She thinks I’m insane. I don’t care. Afterall, they now both have the money to replace the stained clothing I left in their closet. Their closet. The idea makes me sick again. I drift into a fitful sleep in hopes I forget these godforsaken memories.

_______________

I awake to darkness and decide to join mom for dinner. Tonight, dad has joined us physically, but in no other sense. I spoon through a measly dinner and make small talk with mom, while the devil of a cat sits in the window sill. After, I help dad to his chair, easing him back into the cushions now molded to fit his body. I begin to wonder if I’ll ever be like him; stuck in a small town, mentally impaired, left with little company. 

The thought makes me irrationally angry and I find myself clenching my fingers at the thought. I have too much to live for, too much talent, too many people to prove wrong once more. I always knew I’d make it out of here, out of this town and this wretchedly boring home. I could bask daily in the knowledge that I was the one who made it out, that everyone else I knew in the small town distantly connected to this home by a stretch of road would know that I was successful.

“I will never be like you,” I whisper to him. 

These setbacks recently are just temporary. They do not define me. I am meant for more than this and I’ve tasted the life I was meant for, I’ll get there again. 

A shuffling sound comes from behind me and spin to see mom coming into the living area. The cat weaves around her, piercing me with a stare. It’s like the cat knows what I said, that he can sense the anger pitted in me from the past few months. I grab mom’s elbow and guide her to her bedroom. The brown carpet of the house is an ugly color, drab like the rest of this house. It’s something I would never pick out. It’s too plush and sinks beneath my feet. I look down to guide mom’s slippered feet, blue veins and brown spock marks tickling her skin. She is bony, must be letting age get to her and her feet tread so lightly it’s as if she doesn’t even disturb the dirt I know is clinging to each strand of cheap carpet beneath us. 

  When we get to the master bedroom at the end of the hall, I see that her bed is unmade. Guilt makes its way back to me as I help her sink into the bed, the outline of where her body lays each night is clearly visible. When she’s nestled into the bed, I glance across the room.There are far too many florals and weathered photos. An unfinished yarn project sits in a bin in the corner. A concerning amount of pill bottles fill the bedside table. I grab her cane and lean it against the table, right next to a walker that I assume is interchangeable with the cane. I’m not sure. 

I tell mom goodnight, but it seems she’s seen the emotions on my face.

She croaks, “Sweetpea.”

I turn and look at her, wrinkled and frail in the sheets. I hum and wait for an answer, sure she’ll ask me to fetch her water or some other task too unimportant for her to take on the task of rising from her resting place.

“I think you should write something. Try to work out those emotions.”

And with that she closes her eyes. I stand for a moment, taking in her words. Pressing my lips into a distressed line, I close her door and walk down into my basement bedroom. The light still doesn’t work. I shuffle to the closet and dig around for my laptop, sitting at the bottom of my duffle. It sits there because I haven’t written in weeks, it sickens me to think of what I’ve lost. 

When I open the laptop, my previous works are laid out in a folder. I click through. They progressively get shorter. I squint at the screen, my eyebrows scrunching closer together with each opened document. With the shortening length, comes ramblings. Angrier and angrier. I don’t remember writing these. This isn’t my style. Sweat slickens my forehead and I slam my laptop shut. I can’t do this right now.

Then, I notice the ceiling. The two stains are massive, grown larger in the hours since I was last down here. The kitchen is above my room, I would’ve noticed a leak that big. I hear rain outside, in a way that beats against the house and fills my head with a relentless pattering. It never rains here. I’m suddenly claustrophobic. This room is too small. This house is too small. I have to get out of here. None of this makes sense. I sprint upstairs and turn quickly. My eyes whip around the kitchen floor. Pants come quicker with each pull of air. There’s no stain. There’s nothing-

Except for a sickening stench.

There’s a crack of thunder and lightning illuminates the living room. Dad is in the chair, but he’s not dad. He’s a bloated body, brown with rot and covered in maggots. I let out a scream and my fingers find my mouth. My entire body begins to shake, a fear unlike any I’ve known courses through me. I run to mom’s room. Her body is in a similar, rotting state. Her body has melded with the bed, a sign that indicates weeks of decay. 

“No, no, no,” I wheeze and sprint out the front door, sliding down the soaked steps.

I spin in circles in the now muddied front drive. The car in disrepair. The overgrown yard. I gasp for air, but find rain in its place. My lungs feel tight. My heart feels tight. I run back into the house, a pair of glowing green eyes pierce me from the rocking chair on the porch. The smell of death is still there, wafting from the bodies that fill the house.

They’re dead. They’ve been dead.

I walk into the living room and backpedal away from my dad’s body, from my mom’s down the hall. I plug my nose and tears cloud my eyes. I know what I did. I’m  a murderer. I’m sick. My back hits the door frame to the basement and I slip. I try to catch myself, but a streak of black fur runs beneath my feet and I tumble backward, into the bedroom of the home I never wanted to return to, the rain seeing me out. It seems it was always my fate to end up in the life I never wanted. Fate is resourceful like that. 

_______________

BREAKING NEWS: DOUBLE-MURDERER FOUND DEAD IN FAMILY HOME

Following our coverage on the double homicide of couple, Alan Watson and Charlotte Peters, the search for their killer has come to an end. Prime suspect, Stacy Gowen, was found dead in her family home, alongside her parents following a wellness check due to concern for the elderly couple. It has been confirmed the couple died of natural causes weeks before Gowen returned home and it appears she spent days in the home before her own death due to a fall. Sources say that Gowen had recently split from Watson and, following this, stopped receiving treatment for known mental ailments. She was let go from her job as a staff writer at The Horn, an online media platform, due to sporadic behavior. It appears that, before fleeing to her parents’ home, Gowen broke into Watson and Peters’ apartment, stabbing them multiple times in their sleep; the killing so vicious, blood leaked through the floors. While justice cannot be found for the families of the victims in the courtroom, they can rest easy knowing that the killer has been identified and located.