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I found myself back in my childhood, among the green grass and surrounded by the sounds of children playing in the fields with their hand-made slingshots and spinny tops. The countryside was a nice break from the hustle and bustle lifestyle I learned from up north. Sereneness surrounds me, and I can hear each individual breath I take in each one full of the scent of freshly bloomed magnolias and clean-cut grass. Memories of my childhood fill my head, reminding me of the times where I was one of the kids shooting bottles with slingshots, and balancing tops on wooden fences. I feel the prick of the grass on my feet and hands as if it’s holding onto me. Its clinginess soothes me, and I don’t want to leave. Far ahead of the grassy plains I see the remains of what used to be my old house. I walk up to it, and slowly I see it’s a ghost. A new paint job, the patchy white paint became a fierce red. The stairs had metal bars installed to it’s now fixed wooden steps. I step onto it. No creaks. On the side, I see a huge sign, 

Marny Realtors 

I suppose it was inevitable. When my Ma and Pa passed on, and with me and Alex living on opposite sides of the nation, I don’t know how we’d be able to keep our home. This house, which was now a revitalized version of what it once was, held moments where Alex and I would run around chasing each other through the patio, the kitchen, the bedrooms, playing tag til’ dusk. Ma would be in the kitchen, fixing us up some breakfast, and Pa would be sitting on the patio, watching the clouds fly by, and yelling at us to, “Quiet down,” because our game of tag would disturb his, “thinking time.” 

I look at the spot on the patio where Pa had his old rocking chair. It was gone now, but I walk over towards it and see visions of the past. I look out into the fields of grass and I see the sky. It was clear and blue, and I just wanted to bask in its serene glory. 

I continue on. Head into town. I see the old barbershop that Pa and I would go one every other month. The man there, Mr. Meloney was an older gentleman. As a child, he would give me extra pieces of candy when Pa would get his hair done. “Son, you’re special. That’s why I treat you good,” that’s what he says. However, when I turned that golden age of 14, Ma had told me to stay clear of that man. I didn’t quite understand it, but I remember it being because of something Ma read in the paper. Pa and Ma would get into arguments about it, but I didn’t know why. That was until one day I was riding my bike back home from school, and I saw Mr. Meloney cleaning up outside his shop. I wave to him, he waves back at me. These memories come in flashes, I don’t remember much, but all I do know is--all I do know is--he brought me to the backroom and--

“Mr. Meloney is a good guy and the only barber in town,” that’s what Pa would always say. He should be around his 60’s by now. I walk in the store, the familiar bell rings and the man at the desk looks up.  

“How are you today, son? What can I get you?”

“Oh. Nothing. I’m just looking around.”

“Meloney!” Suddenly, the desk man calls Meloney out. 

Noone comes out, so he walks around the desk and walks down the hallway of barber chairs and equipment, and next thing I knew he was yelling, “Meloney! We got someone who’s just looking around. Do some of your magic on him. He looks like he’s in need of a trim.” 

A few seconds later, I see the same Mr. Meloney that I remember as a child. 

He looks up, and scans my face with pensive eyes. He searches for familiarity, and I beat him to it, “I’m Henry Truvall’s son, Jamie.” His face lights up in remembrance. “Jamie! I haven’t seen you in the long time.” He walks closer to me. I feel a cold touch on my shoulder, it sends shivers up my spine. He rubs my back, each time, his hands creep closer downward. I step away from him, which causes a reaction from the young man, and Mr. Meloney. Although surprised, Mr. Meloney manages to regain his composure. He crosses his arms, “So what’re you here for boy?” A grin grows on his face, something I remember very well. 

“I know what you did to me,” I say. 

I see his grin turn into a frown, his brows dig deep into his forehead, and he scoffs. “What do you mean?” He turns to the young man beside him, and both exchange expressions of disbelief. 

“That room,” I look and point to the back room, “I remember exactly what you did, and how you did it, and all the things you said to me to make me shut up!” I wait to see his reaction. 

“Well?” He looks confused, brows still furrowed, and he begins to exchange looks of confusion with the young man. 

I stood there, silently. 

“You still haven’t said anything, son.” His scoff turns into a laugh, “Look, it’s nice to see you again. It’s a shame to hear about your parents. Heard it was a crazy car accident. I’ll be in the back.” He waddles into the backroom, but before the doors fully close, he shouts out at me, “You’re always welcome to visit!” He winks, and his presence is hidden behind the large blue doors. 

The young man in front of me, sighs. “Well have a nice day, Mr. Truvall. We’ll be seeing you another time?”

I shake my head, “I’m just coming here to visit--I won’t be here again.” 

I leave the store, traces of the bell sounds attached to the door linger in my brain. I close my eyes. After a few seconds, I find myself back in the green fields, among the prickly blades of grass, and the cheerful shouts of children. The sky was still clear and blue, but I notice dark grey clouds lurking closer. I take a deep breath in, and heave out a sigh of peace. 

I want to stay here forever, but I know it’s a dream. I have to wake up. I hear my name being called out from above, I know that when I wake up I’ll be safe in my bed, with memories of the past far behind me.

--

The cries of my roommate hover over me. I hear the sounds of police sirens and footsteps running with loud clunky boots. 

“I found a bottle of pills,” I manage to hear their few words, “His eyes are rolling back, get him up get him up!” 

 I don’t know where I am. I feel a pool of sweat beneath me. An overwhelming sense of dread fills my stomach, and I can’t breathe. I feel wet hands on my chest, trying to reel life back in. I’m dizzy. What are they saying? I can’t hear anything. My eyes are rolled back and I find myself looking at Ma and Pa’s faces. I want to stay with them. Let me go.