30. Willow
WILLOW
NOVEMBER PRESENT DAY
The air around me seems to be at a standstill as soon as my hand curls around the old doorknob. I can hear another low caw of a crow off in the back field, but other than that, the whole world is silent. Even the neighbor’s dog has stopped barking.
“Come on, Willow. Open the fucking door. Nothing in there can hurt you anymore,” I whisper to myself as if I’m afraid whatever ghosts are lurking inside will pop out to challenge that statement.
Fuck it. Here goes nothing.
I twist the doorknob, and it easily turns, but the door won’t open. It’s like it’s stuck on something. I press my shoulder against it, trying to wedge it open, but it won’t budge.
Glancing around the covered porch, there doesn’t seem to be anything out here that I can use to wedge into the door frame. I slam my foot against the door twice and notice the slightest bit of movement. One good shove should do it.
I take a step back and run, throwing myself against the door.
I can hear the wood groan as it finally pushes free from the frame and flies open.
I go toppling into the kitchen and land hard on the dirty linoleum floor.
As I roll to my back and close my eyes, faint memories start fading in from the edges of my mind.
I can hear my parents shouting and the sounds of my father’s hand hitting my mother’s face, followed by her cries.
When I open my eyes, my mind goes quiet. The old water stains and mold dot along the old popcorn ceilings. Splatters of what looks like sauce or grease are above the stove. Everything feels like it has a layer of rot and disease covering it. That’s what this place is…Rotten.
I sit up and finally look around the room entirely.
It’s like I’ve stepped into one of my nightmares.
The kitchen table is turned on its side and thrown against the wall.
Two chairs are shattered, and the other is pushed against the counter.
I get the flicker of a memory of when I once climbed onto the chair, then onto the counter to get down a bowl, only for it to fall and shatter, which caused my dad to punish me.
My eyes fall to the area next to the fridge, just inside the archway that leads to the front room.
A dark brown stain covers an area nearly three feet wide.
Marks can be seen where something was dragged.
It should have been cleaned up years ago by a crime scene team, but just like this house, it was long forgotten.
“I’m so sorry, Mom.”
I crawl a bit closer to the stain and touch my fingers to the edge, and that’s when I notice it.
A small mark next to where the blood was pooling that night is a handprint.
A small, innocent handprint of dried blood smeared across the tile, belonging to the little girl who didn’t deserve to witness what she did that night.
I place my hand over the top of the handprint, and it’s like the memory of that night comes into focus, clearer than ever.
I can feel her arms wrapped around me. Each time he stabbed her, I could feel her arms wrapping tighter, trying to protect me. All she ever tried to do was protect me from him.
I can feel the saliva pooling in my mouth.
The bitter, burning sensation is filling my throat, forcing me to quickly run to the kitchen sink and throw up.
My eyes pinch shut as waves of nausea hit me over and over.
I can hear the sounds of the knife slicing into her.
She didn’t scream. She cried and held onto me, whispering that it was going to be okay… But it wasn’t.
As the sirens got closer, my vision grew darker. My head was pounding from hitting it on the ground when we fell. I couldn’t see anything. I could only hear my dad shouting and my mother telling me she loved me and then nothing but complete silence.
I turn on the water, and the clanging of pipes, finally waking up, can be heard throughout the whole house. The water sputters brownish-green until it finally runs clear. Good to know that the well hasn’t dried up after all these years.
Against my better judgment, I cup a little of the water to swish around my mouth before spitting it into the sink.
I let the water run to wash the remnants of my gas station lunch down the drain.
When it’s finally empty, I shut off the water and rest my head on my crossed arms propped on the counter.
It’s freezing, yet my entire body is covered in sweat. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.
When I glance back at the blood stain, I thankfully don’t see the ghostly image of my mom lying there. It’s just a stain.
I wish there were a way to remove that entire night from my memory.
I’m just glad that most of the time before that seems to be locked away.
I don’t remember birthdays or Christmases.
I don’t remember school or any of my friends.
Did I even have friends, or did my dad keep me locked up all the time?
The small amount of memories that have come back are all of me being here, locked away in this hellhole.
I carefully make my way toward the stairs.
The front room looks the same, except for the destroyed furniture.
It looks like someone sliced the couch apart.
The old plasma TV has a hole through the screen.
My mother’s knick-knacks on the mantle are either shattered or covered in dust. How can a stranger just come in and destroy someone’s possessions?
Did it not matter that they belonged to someone?
Holes line the walls leading up the steps. Spray-painted words and art, if you can call it that, lead me up to my old room. The door is closed. Closed doors are never good. You never know what could be hiding on the other side.
The knob turns easily, letting me open it slowly.
The scent of mold and mildew hits me first. That window must have been one of the first ones to be destroyed, letting the elements in for the last fifteen years.
Dust, dried leaves, animal droppings, and God only knows what else litter the floor and my old bed.
There’s no pillow, just an old green and purple comforter with Sebastian and Flounder on it.
I glance at the bedside table where my old lamp still sits.
It’s now on its side and the bulb is shattered.
The lamp shade is crushed on one side. I have always remembered that lamp.
I loved setting it to the lowest setting so that just a small amount of light would cast shadows on the ceiling.
It made me feel like I was in the ocean. It made me feel safe.
I’ve looked for a replacement for years, but the only ones I could find on eBay were almost $100.
There was no way in hell I was going to spend that much on a lamp when I was struggling to make it through law school, no matter how much sentimental value it held.
Maybe one day, after I win a few cases, I’ll be able to justify the purchase.
My eyes trail around the room. There’s damage done, but not as bad as the rest of the house.
It looks like they went through the drawers in my dresser and vanity, but didn’t destroy things as they did downstairs.
My mirror is still intact, and there aren’t any slash marks in the old mattress.
They must have seen this room and heard the stories of the murder that took place here.
They might have even felt sympathy for the little girl whose life was ruined.
The little girl who disappeared without a trace.
The closet door is partially open. I can see books and papers spilling out with random pieces of clothing.
Each step I take creaks. The floorboards are slightly bending as I make my way toward the closet.
I pull the door open the rest of the way and see three old leather-bound books tucked in the corner.
I pull them out, then carefully walk back to the bed, pulling the comforter away to reveal a small space that doesn’t seem to be filthy, and take a seat. When I open the first book, it crackles as the pages pull apart, revealing my collection inside.
My fingers trace the dried petals and stems, untouched for over fifteen years. The flowers are some of the memories I still can remember dreaming about. I loved them, and so did my mom. She taught me how to press them between the pages to dry them and save them forever.
I sit there flipping through the pages, looking at all the different dried flowers for a long time. Much longer than I originally thought I would have stayed here. The sky is getting darkening, and I can see the snow is getting deeper. I need to get going soon.
I glance around the room one last time, looking for anything else I might want to bring back with me. A small wooden box tossed in the corner catches my attention. I try to lift it, but the lid breaks off, spilling the contents onto the floor. There are a ton of photos scattered around me now.
After all this time, I had forgotten what my mother looked like.
To me, she was always an angel with her bright blonde hair and blue eyes.
But I couldn’t remember her face. Looking down at the photos, I can finally recall the rest of her.
The freckle just above the left side of her lip.
The small scar she had running down from her right eye. Her eyes that sparkled when she smiled.
My chest feels like it’s being crushed from the emotions welling up inside.
The back of my throat feels raw from throwing up, and now I can feel tears building.
I can see the differences in the photos.
The ones my dad is in with us, her body looks tense, and she’s leaning away from him.
She always put herself between him and me.
She always tried to protect me. The ones where it’s just her or some with her and me, she looks like a different person. She looks happy…She looks alive.
A low creak causes me to freeze. It’s just the wind…Right? Another creak causes my heart to beat faster. What if someone is here? I quickly stand, dropping the stack photos and the box to the ground. I press my back against the wall so I can’t be seen from the doorway and hold my breath.
I stay there silently, counting in my head. I don’t hear a sound. Not a single thing except my heart pounding in my skull.
It must’ve just been the wind.