6. Ambrose—present day
Ambrose—present day
S he lies in the bed, this frail older woman whose body is getting eaten away by cancer. She doesn’t move when I enter from the kitchen with a bowl of oatmeal and take a seat on a tiny chair that creaks below my weight.
A mix of emotions swirl inside me as I look at her. Hate. Pity. Those things rise to the top.
Her dog, a young poodle named Bubbles, tries to steal my attention by putting her paws on my lap.
And she succeeds.
The muddy prints on my denim pants make me cringe, and I look at her questioningly. Yes, I look at the dog that way. In my defense, she still has what looks like half of the backyard between her toes.
Her shaggy hair blocks her beady brown eyes and prevents her from seeing me wave her down.
When she’s back on the floor, I take the spoon to her owner’s dry lips.
“Not today, Ambrose.”
It’s the first time she’s used my name since I started visiting her two weeks ago.
It was a request made by my cellmate. And while I shouldn’t have agreed, in return, he gave me what I needed: a written admission for crimes too heinous to think about.
For a while, I’d ignored it. Then, one night after a drink, I showed up here with questions I couldn’t voice and a baseball bat that some vandal had left behind at my house.
I’d intended to destroy this house like someone had destroyed mine when this woman proved herself useless.
But that never happened.
The living room looks exactly like it did before I came here—shabby-chic furniture scattered throughout it. The two-story home is small yet still too big for this woman, who only uses this one room.
“I can’t face food. Not today. Don’t feel you have to stay. The nurse will be here soon.” She smiles, but it’s sad. That pity, I feel, she feels it for me, too. It’s in her glassy stare.
“Why do you keep coming here, boy?”
Keeping my eyes on her in the hospital bed that takes up one side of her living room, I sigh.
I have no fucking clue why I’m here.
“It was wrong of him to ask you.”
It was so fucking wrong, my head bobs in agreement.
“But I am sorry. I hope you know that. For not helping you more. For letting him do what he did. It wasn’t meant to be that way.”
She sounds like she’s saying goodbye and only has so many days left. Her gray skin says not many.
I’m counting them down.
Standing, I point to the calendar she has on the wall, tomorrow’s date in line with my finger.
It isn’t my prediction for the end of the old lady’s life. It’s just me telling her when I’ll be back next.
Snapping my fingers for Bubbles to follow, I take her to the kitchen.
Setting the untouched oatmeal down, I contemplate a taste, knowing this brand is a luxury one I wouldn’t buy for myself, but instead, I wash it down the garbage disposal.
Bubbles wraps her legs around my waist, anticipating what comes next. I cringe again, feeling the germs climb all over me, and my weak leg gives out.
Keeping the anger, sadness, and disgust I feel from Bubbles because I’m the only person she gets any attention from these days, which isn’t fair to a young dog. I don’t push her away as I load her bowl with kibble.
She needs a quick haircut before I set it on the floor. I’m no groomer, but if I want her to see what she’s eating, this has to happen. I use the scissors that hang on the wall to do it. Her hair falls away from her face, and I give her a smile that tells her she’s a good girl. She is.
Dollie would love her.
My smile grows.
Placing her bowl on the floor, I lose her attention to dry dog food, and she loses mine to a basement door.
“Don’t do it,” a voice calls from the living room. The voice in my head says the same, but still, my hand wraps around the doorknob, and I drop down into the basement.
This fucking room calls to me every time I’m here.
I close the door and seal myself in the darkness with memories.
It isn’t the same room, but it transports me back to a place I can’t escape whenever I’m here. The basement where I work does the same, making me thankful my home doesn’t have one.
My young voice haunts these walls. The room is so different from the one I spent almost a year of my childhood in.
The walls are white, and no splashes of my blood are sprinkled over the paint. The floor isn’t covered in water.
“You’re so lucky.” Dollie’s voice fills my head.
Sliding down the steps, the old wood creaks.
The sound has old memories running up my spine.
My hackles are on edge as I move over to an upcycled dresser.
The irony that it’s unmistakably one of Mom’s overwhelms me.
My cheeks heat in this cold room, making the cold tear that runs down my cheek so much more noticeable.
I stay here for a while.
The blade in my hand is sharp and scrapes easily through my skin. An old injury becomes new as a red tear follows the path and falls to the ground.
I like these scars better, the ones I put on myself.
The new wounds are a little gift—that will overpower the older ones given by someone else and change how I feel about my image.
Downstairs is dirty.
Ignoring the voice in my head, I relish in the pain, breathing through it as I cut another line in my arm, this one deeper.
Flicker, flicker, flicker. The light above me goes on and off a few times.
I sigh over having to fix something else in this house after having to sort multiple things just an hour ago when I returned from Mrs. Bannadosi’s house.
Taking a swig from a bottle by my side, I forget the light.
Forget that I wasted thirty dollars on this whiskey that tastes like piss as I set it down. I could have bought lots of good oatmeal with that.
But oatmeal doesn’t numb the emptiness inside me.
Downstairs is dirty.
The house is dirty.
I angle the blade and cut the third gash as my poorly lit room brightens, thanks to car lights.
The vehicle struggles with the hill, which brings a smile to my lips because it won’t be anyone coming here to visit me. Just some random to cause trouble.
Probably more vandals.
No one else ever comes here.
I leave my sitting position on the floor because I can’t sit on my bed in my outdoor clothes, especially when they’re stained by muddy poodle paws. I brush myself down before adjusting my curtains to block the light out.
I head for my bathroom to take a quick shower, not giving the car or those inside a single glance.
I toss my little blade onto my dresser and enter the brighter room.
The hue burns my eyes, and I immediately shut it off.
The bathroom has a new bulb because it popped the first time I took a shower here. It came with a twin, and I’ll switch it out with the one in my room tomorrow.
Because I’m too damn tired to do much else tonight.
Heaviness hovers over my eyelids as I lose my clothes, the exhaustion from work, and my side gig as a caregiver, catching up.
I didn’t leave Mrs. Bannadosi’s house after exiting the basement. I tried again to encourage her to eat… and failed again. So, instead, I waited with her through five episodes of her favorite sitcom for the nurse to show up.
Doing so taxed every fucking emotion.
Downstairs is dirty.
Ignoring the voice still, I yawn as I step beyond the frosted glass, my legs heavy.
A thought crosses my mind as water rains down on me. I hope it’s that same vandal who sticks to downstairs because I’m too fucking tired for anyone to try and get in here tonight.
I could crash any second.