Analog

I’m running out of time. And it’s nothing new, whether I need to revise the ending of a story, declutter a corner I’ve neglected, or repair a tool I don’t know how to fix. This isn’t what I want anymore, and it’s getting harder than I expected.

Routines are much easier. I dress in a crisp, new uniform, spotless white slip-ons, take a few sips of chai, and I’m off, bag over my shoulder, packed with a few essentials: brand-new cloths, sponges, and fluids, restocked and ready.

After a quick squeegee of the van’s side mirror, dusty and damp under my fingertip, breathe in, then out. Frantic streaks of tangerine and dusty rose paint the late November sky. Then, I recheck the order on my device—1950’s ranch house, full resto, some fascia damage—in an exurb of tree-lined properties, postage-stamp yards and late-model cars in front.

Skirting ribbons of tape across the threshold, strewn like forgotten tinsel after New Year’s, I step inside the worksite, a replica of my childhood home, a haven, before I was failed by those who were supposed to protect me.

15 minutes on the clock app timer. Shielded by an N95 and latex, I begin with small, languid swipes across a scuffed wooden table, covered in welt-like specks. Each press absorbs splotches from high-velocity splatters, and my wrists screech a plea for respite.

Ding. I check my work, snap an “after” image, a revision of chaos into a burnished space, where the story of lives can begin anew.

My rubber soles skitter across the kitchen tile and pulverize the spill into tiny dunes of oats. The bowl beside them, shattered into clam-shell halves, reminded me of the one I used as a kid, when I lived for Saturday mornings, syrupy-slow and bright, parked in front of our old set.

I cross the floor, now gleaming, to find the master bath. I shouldn’t speak ill, but these folks always have the nastiest tile, spots of mold everywhere.

Then, I step in front of the mirror and scream.

_________________________________________

I’m running late again, and I can’t miss practice for detention again, because it’s almost the end of the season. I hate the extra work, and my outside shot still sucks.

Set my feet, visualize the arc. Grip. Press. Push. Five times, twenty times, then more. Probably won’t get in until right before halftime, if Coach sees me like this. She swears I'm getting stronger, some crap about “the retreat of weakness”, a message my shoulders haven't heard. Sometimes, I think she’s as crazy as a serial killer.

So I lay out my tattered mat and ease myself into camel, then child’s pose. A bit of ache hisses out, like a tire running over a nail and popping. My heart slows, and I want to sleep just like this, ass in the air, cheek against the pleather, cool and softer than my pillow. Pathetic.

Instead, I throw on sweats and a tee, grab breakfast, to get there before the bell, grateful no one is yelling, “Hurry up, you’ll be late”.

Yuck, It’s funky down here, like a picnic of cheeses and cold cuts left in the sun too long.

OMG. I don’t know where to look first, but it’s like a bomb went off in this room. I see their old stereo and the flat screen, but It looks like Woody Woodpecker threw up on this shag carpet I hate, that Mom refused to rip out. Ugh. Well, they can’t blame this on me…

So, I try to sidestep the mess, a chore I’ll be stuck with later, but my right heel catches on something rust-colored and thick, another chore for the list.

In the kitchen, I reach for the box on the fridge, the flap untucked like my collar on picture day, when she chased me to the door. I mean, how hard is it to reseal the bag? I really can’t stand Sam sometimes, and she never says a thing. Now, the last few stale and crumbly bits clatter into my bowl, and I don't have time for anything besides a Pop-Tart. Oh well.

My stomach drops when the knocking cracks the door open. What the hell??

Steel-toed boots tap against hardwood in the hall. I sprint for the back bathroom, just before another set of footsteps skitter down the hall. “Get out of here, right now! No! Marley, don’t come out.”

I shouldn’t yell, but I wanna ask, why tell whoever it is I’m here? Like I didn’t hear all that. Just call—

BOOM! BOOM! Then, silence and the tapping gets closer.

My heart thumps, like those squirrels going up that oak tree out back.The world around me narrows into a black box with fuzzy edges.

Is this it, for real?

I brush away a tear. A carousel of images plays behind my eyes. I'm just five, cross-legged with a cereal bowl in my lap, watching my favorite one, "Conjunction Junction” again; a sun-splashed afternoon, sand slipping between my toes; clutching my bloody knee, Dad’s hands scooping me by the waist; Mom’s tear-streaked cheek, cool and smooth against my palm.

I face the mirror, open my eyes, and—

_________________________________________

“Who are y— wait. What’s happening??”

“I’m working. Who the hell are you? No one’s supposed to be here!”

“Well, I am, but what the hell are you doing?”

“My job. Cleaning up this mess, see here?”

“You broke in, and I’m gonna call for help! Who sent you?”

“Ha, you can, but it won’t change anything. The department pays for this, once they’ve removed the bodies. Who are you?”

“Bodies?? What? I live here!”

“You’re crazy. Wait, you’re high, aren't you. Get outa here!”

“No, I really live here, but I—”

“You what? Just let me do my job, OK? I don’t have time for some dumb, strange girl in my damn way. Jeez!”

“But I lived here. No! I live here! I’m not, I- I’m gonna be late, get detention after, again, I gotta—”

“You gotta get the hell out. I’ve got three jobs today, can’t afford to get behind.”

“But I’m not dead! I have a life, school, basketball, my friends, my parents, even my lousy brother. I don’t want this.”

“Well, it all comes to an end, kid. I know it’s not your fault, but sometimes it happens this way.”

“It’s not fair! Why is this happening? How??”

"Don't know. And, it’s not fair at all. But, I bet you were good at what you did, huh.”

“I worked so hard, on my stance, my grip, so many shots. Before school, after practice, Saturdays. I loved it, even when Coach rode my ass. And my teammates, even my brother cheered, I loved it all.”

“Yeah, it’s the little things, the peace, we miss most. Making lunches for my kiddos, singing along with them in the car, days at the park or the beach. I was tired, but I was happy, too, with life."

“I don’t think my mom was like that. She was always mad about something.”

“But you were there for her in the end, weren’t you?”

“Yeah, I was. I miss her so much.”

“Look, I don’t know you, but I’m sure you meant everything to her, too, from the beginning when she held you. That’s the most important thing, right?”

“I guess I really wish I had more time, you know.”

“Don’t we all, dear?”