And Then There Was One

I walk out the door seemingly unfazed by what I saw.

At least I want to be unfazed.

The image

Memory...it flashes and flashes again and again in my head.

A film of my life up to this point.

My room...my face left untouched, while everything else lies in complete ruin.

The blaring horn of a passing semi, brings me back to reality and back into my lane. I don't think now is the time to be thinking about this.

The nice thing about towns like this is not much changes. After 15 years everything is as it was, some businesses closed but the main drag was still alive as it ever was...if I could even call it alive.

The market has the essentials, always has, it was everything else that may have been in short supply. Odd to me too since most people around here made their own essentials. I remembered at some points having a cow or two...

My mind keeps going back to the picture.

I don't understand.

I had read an essay once

By Roland Barthe.

He said that only a reader could extract meaning from a text.

Since I knew Dad wouldn't tell me why

I was gonna have to figure it out myself.

Remembering Nadja

I have to catch my breath and remind myself that this is real life. Among the chaos of the house, the clutter, the garbage...my room had remained untouched. I had never left...but I've relocated. This is no longer my home.

But for a moment I see myself 8 years old in a hand-me-down Looney Toons t-shirt. I'm drawing pictures on the floor in an old notebook. My sister would save pages for me to draw on, we couldn't afford to spend money on extra paper, just so I could draw.

She told me about these places around the world that she would read about. In her literature class there was a mysterious woman named Nadja, who lived in a place called Paris.

"What's Paris?"
"It's a city..."
"I want to go!"
"You can't it's in a different country."
"Where?"
"France...Nadja is in France. Nadja is beautiful. She's also mad."
"Why is she mad?"
"I don't know."

The picture I drew of Nadja is still on the wall. I set my bags down and walk back out into the living room...if you could even call it that. He hasn't moved.

"Are you hungry, Dad?"

He remains silent.

"Well I'm gonna go to the market and get some things."

As I walk past him to the door I notice something in his hand. From where I stand I can tell it's a picture...its a picture of our family. Everyone's face has been scratched out...except mine.

Meeting

When I've finally made my way around all the garbage in the yard I reach the front door. The paint is peeling...at least whats left of it. Looks like it had given up on him too.

For a moment I can't believe he lives this way, but I realize he doesn't even notice. He likes things this way. To him, if everything is disorderly and awry, he feels like he fits right in. He's not an outcast any more.

I place my hand on the rusted door knob and take my last breath of fresh air. While I never saw myself back here again, this feels familiar. The feeling of not knowing.

 I'm reminded of when I first got away. I went to Hawaii. I had never seen the ocean. I stood, over looking the deep blue waters, in complete disbelief that this was my life. I was scared as hell, with no plan, but I was ready to take on anything. Standing in my bare feet, I took a breath, and let the ocean embrace me.

But this isn't Hawaii, and for now that's not my life.

The smell of urine, mold, and rot is overwhelming. Inside matches outside, if not more extreme. Perhaps they were the same but without the open space the accumulation of shit seems more confining. I find myself feeling claustrophobic.

"Hi Dad."

He's staring at the wall. Didn't even turn around when he heard the door open. Now that I think about it he might not have even heard it. He always said they were so loud sometimes he couldn't even hear someone six inches away. They yelled at him a lot.

He remains silent, as I thought he would. I don't know what else to say, so I make my way back to what was my room. I want to see what's become of it.

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