Memory in the ashes

As I step forward, I disturb the ash. It flurries up like dark snow around my shoes. It has not rained in almost a week and the air feels extremely dry and dusty. But there is a charge in the air – a storm - gathering dark clouds over the horizon. There is a flash in the distance. At first, I do not know if it is my memory or the storm.

           I watch the ash settle back down. I take a deep breath and take another step over the threshold. The front door is laying on the ground. It is charred black and I am afraid if I step on it, it will crumble and disappear out of existence. I look up to where the chandelier once was. It oversaw the grand staircase in the entrance hall. When I was a child I liked to imagine myself as a young lady in an elegant dress slowly coming down the stairs, lit gently by the chandelier and having a handsome lad waiting for me at the bottom, mesmerized by my beauty. Of course, that was a childish fantasy dreamt up long ago. Now the entrance hall is nothing but a black mass of burned skeleton of a memory it once was.

           I still remember that night like it happened yesterday. The night my life changed forever.

           I carefully step inside the hallway and make my way towards the dining room to my left. The beautiful cabinets that held our silverware and china, the long dining table and antique chairs where we sat for dinner that night are all nothing but piles of ash now. I make my way to the kitchen and then to the circular steel staircase next to the back door. It is still standing. I test it gently. I think it will hold my weight. Not that there is much to hold.

           I take a step up the stairs. Then another and another. As I reach the first floor, I hear the storm rumble in distance. It stops me. For a moment thunder has thrown me back into my memories and I am suddenly a child again hearing my mothers scream as there is a flash in the house. And then, just like that flash, it is gone.

           I stand there at the top of the stairs unable to move or breathe. My heart is pounding, and I feel a tear push its way out of the corner of my eye. I try to gather myself. I still have a long way to go if I am to face my ghosts.

           I force myself to take a few steps forward down the hallway. There are holes in the charred floor, and in some places, it has completely given out, but it seems sturdy enough. The ashes and dust are unsettled as I walk, and I feel like I cannot breathe. I stop in front of a half-opened and burned door to my right. I turn my head and look inside. It was my baby brother’s room. Once. The sight of the burned and broken crib, scattered, black toys and the half-missing floor is too painful, so I look away and walk further down the hallway. To my left is what used to be my room. I carefully and slowly step inside. I catch a glimpse of my face in the broken, blackened mirror on the wall next to me. It is cracked and dirty, but I still see myself staring back scared. I see the scar that crosses my right cheek. Memories sweep over me so fast that I get dizzy. Suddenly I am back there that night - a young girl of 6 startled awake by her mother’s scream and a gunshot.

           My father was a hard man. When things were going well for him, he would spoil us, play with us, spend time with us and tell us all how much he loved us. When things were going wrong… He drank and gambled. During those times we never knew what would set him off. He would scream and break things. Sometimes we would be those things, our hearts as well as our bones. When he had been drinking, I would sleep under my bed in fear. This had been one of those nights.

           My father had not come home for dinner time and so my mother, my baby brother, only 2 at the time, and I had had dinner in the dining room. It had been a lovely evening. We laughed and pretended to be on a ship, heading for a better life and being served the most amazing food. After dinner, my mother had bathed my brother and put him in his crib for the night. She came to my room too, gave me a kiss, and tucked me in. I loved my mother. I still love her. Sometimes I feel like she is still right next to me, trying to protect me through my life.

           I was in my bed and asleep when my mother screamed. That is what woke me. Then came my father’s yelling and mother’s sobbing. I quietly got out of bed and crept up to my door and opened it ever so slightly. My heart was pounding so loud I was sure my father would hear me. He was screaming at her. I do not know what he was saying, it was almost as if I was still dreaming and it was like I was in a fog. I heard my mother sobbing and pleading, my brother wailing in his room startled by the noises. Then came a gunshot. I saw the flash of the gun and I ran out of my room.

           That is when he heard me. He ran out of the room he had been in and started chasing me, yelling my name and for me to come to him. I did not stop. I heard my brother's cries but I could not dare to stop. As I reached the grand staircase, I heard a bang. My father had run into and knocked over one of the oil lamps in the hallway. He did not even seem to notice. He was holding the small handgun he always carried. He shot again. I heard the sound and saw a flash, and I felt the bullet graze my cheek, but I was a moving target and he could not aim well in his state. I did not feel pain, but I did feel panic, growing larger within me, and telling me to run.

           I managed to get downstairs. I ran out of the front door that my father had left wide open when he came home. And I kept running. Our house had a forest on one side of it and the sea on the other and it was quite secluded. I ran into the forest. I had always loved to play in it and felt it was my only refuge. I heard my father coming after me and knew I had to keep going. And so, I ran, and I hid in some bushes when I thought my father could not see me anymore in the dark. I could still however see the house from there. It was becoming engulfed in flames. I could hear my brother’s cries and I wanted to run back, I wasted to get him, to save him, but even as young as I was, I knew there was nothing I could do for him anymore. The flames had taken over the house.

           I got up again and I ran. It felt like it had been a week by the time I reached the nearest village. I remember it was almost dawn and first fishermen had awoken to start their day early. They found me, exhausted, in shock, bloodied and injured on the ground by one of their boats where I had sat down. After that… I do not remember.

           I do not know what became of my father. I do not even know when anybody discovered the remains of our house. I had been already sent away. Someone took me to the nearest city and left me at an orphanage. I had not spoken at all since the events had taken place and soon the villagers decided I was not their problem.

           I came back to the house that killed my family and my childhood in one night to make peace with my ghosts. The past that has never left me. The place I had not seen since I was 6 years old.

It has been almost 2 decades now. As I passed through the village on my way here, I had by sheer chance overheard people speak of the strange man who roams in the forest there. People just assumed he was somebody alone and insane. Nobody had ever properly seen him, just some shadows here and there, some food going missing occasionally, but nothing more than that. Some villagers were not even sure that he existed. Perhaps it was just an animal, but I doubt that.

I step out of the remains of my room and walk back towards the stairs. I pass my brothers room and wonder if anybody ever recovered his and my mother’s remains? Or if they are still here, in this house, their bodies trapped forever under the rubble just like my mind is. I walk quietly back downstairs but I have for sure disturbed whatever still lies in this house. I hear a movement behind me in the kitchen. It is swift and subtle, but I am certain someone else is here. Could it be?

I check my pocket for the handgun I have taken with me for protection. It is still there. Good. I feel like I am being watched. I turn and slowly walk towards where the sound came from. I hear steps retreating. I follow them. They lead me out to the back of the house. There is a shed there, half-covered by foliage left to grow however it pleases all these years. I am sure someone is there. Could it be?

I slowly walk towards the shed that was spared the flames when the house burned. But I know I am not alone. My heart is racing again, and I hear shuffling inside. Time to face my ghosts. I enter.

There he is. He is dirty, ragged, and much older with a scraggly, unkempt beard but it is him. He seems startled and scared. He recoils further in the shadows, but it is too late. I have already recognized him.

“Who are you? What do you want?” he says. He sounds fearful and barely anything of him resembles the man he once was – my father. I almost feel sorry for him at that moment. Almost.

“No doubt the years have changed me, but do you really not recognize me anymore?” I say. There is a coldness in my voice I do not know.

He looks closely at my face examining it in the sparse light. His gaze reaches the scar he gave me, and a moment of recognition passes him.

Then there is a gunshot and a flash, only this time it is me pulling the trigger.