That Day

I walked slowly up the pathway to the front of the house. It had been so many years since someone had been here, and even longer since I had. The once quaint bushes that used to grow on either side of the path that had used to only gently spill over onto the concrete now grew with nothing to hold it back, leaving very little room for walking.

I ran my hand along the rusty railing barely hanging on to the three steps that led up to the front door. My hand clanged on the metal, making a dull clink...clink...clink noise, and it wobbled with each strike. I was tempted to push on it until it fell off all together, but that would only draw more attention to the house. I knew I shouldn't be here, but I couldn't resist it any more.

I didn't know what was drawing me here, after all these years. I had had so many opportunities to visit this place, but I had never wanted to. Perhaps because it was the anniversary of when it had happened. Yes. Maybe that was why I was latching on to this place, to the memories.

I reached the front door. It stood, just slightly ajar, as if the house itself spent all these years waiting for me to come back, not ready to close its doors and give up on itself, like everyone else gave up on it. I reached out for the door knob, then hesitated. Did I really want to do this? It had been over 20 years since that night after all. Was I willing to reopen wounds I had spent years patching up and healing from? Yes.

I had barely placed my fingers on the door when it seemed to swing open almost by itself. One foot in front of the other, I told myself as my legs trembled in quiet anticipation. I couldn't tell if it was from pure fear, or excitement. I hardly remembered anything from that night now, so why was I so nervous?

I stepped fully in, and even braved a few steps forward. I jumped and let out an involuntary yelp as a loud BANG! echoed behind me, the door slamming shut. I blinked the tears out of my eyes and continued forward once again, slower this time.

I took a look around at the house unfolding in front of me, the house that had lurked in the back of my nightmares for pretty much my whole life. Of course I had only been 8 when it happened, or was I 9? But the memory was so strong nonetheless, so etched in my mind, so bright and clear.

I made my way through the house, trying to ignore the furniture tipped over and strewn about almost identically to how it had been that day, after the fight. I clenched my fists, but they wouldn't stop shaking.

I couldn't keep the memories from flooding in as I got closer and closer to her room. Her smile, her laugh, and how quickly it fell off her face. The door stood wide open, inviting me back into my childhood, or rather where it had ended.

There it was, still clear and bright as the day it happened. Or maybe that was just by brain falling in and out of that day and the present. That happened a lot. My therapist said it was because of the childhood trauma. When my brain couldn't cope with things, it would fill in the information with similar past experiences.

Of course she didn't know exactly what had happened. No one did. Not even me for a few years. I had gotten so used to lying about it that I had even convinced myself for a while. But deep down I had always known the truth about that day.

I snapped back to the present, out of my daze. Part of me wished I would wake up in my bed at home, that I had never decided to come back here. But no. I was still standing in the door way of her room, looking in on the memories.

The blood was still soaked into the carpet, staining it forever. I could still see the spray paint that was now way more faded, that had outlined her body. I looked around at the rest of the room.

There was the shattered glass cup, the cup that had been so precariously held in her hand. I could still hear the noise it made, and the silence that followed after it had slipped out of her hand, the only sound remaining being our breathing, almost perfectly in sync.

The bed. The sheets still thrown carelessly about, as she hadn't bothered to make her bed that morning. She had wanted to get up to make me breakfast for my special day. It had been my birthday. I forgot that detail.

I sunk to the ground and leaned against the bed, taking in the musty, almost familiar smell of the blanket. I looked around once again. This frozen moment when it all went to hell. The moment that ended my childhood, and led me to where I am right now.

Sometimes I wish I could take back what happened. Sometimes I wish that frozen moment had stayed exactly that. Frozen. That we could've stayed in that day forever, but before everything went wrong.

At that point, the memories were almost too much. They were flooding in, the pictures from that day locked in my mind, playing like a movie. A story. That's all it was. A story.

My therapist said it's normal to think of these memories as a story. As something I read or watched. As something that happened to someone else, not to me. It made it easier to deal with for some people.

And she was right. It did make it easier. But in the end, I knew it was real. That it had actually happened. And it couldn't be taken back, no matter how I felt. And it had happened to me. Not someone else. Not some fictional character in a story or movie.

Something she had said though has always stuck with me. "Your life is just one big story," She had said, in that gentle, soft voice of hers. "You're the author, so make it a good one."

All stories have a beginning, middle and end. Mine was no different. And this was the end. But that day? That was the beginning. The beginning of the end.

The bloodstains, the glass, the bed, the blanket, my birthday. My mom had wanted everything to be perfect for my birthday. My mom. My idol, my caretaker, my best friend, my inspiration. My first kill.