a mess. The room that used to be mine is filled with clothes and boxes. I take a closer look, and peak my head inside. Nothing of me remains here. It doesn’t look like a room as much as a storage space. The wallpaper is different, as it should be, seeing that I left more than two decades ago. My mom got me a wallpaper that was blue, with astronaut figures and planets. Now it’s been replaced by paint that is stained and peeling.
Mari’s hand brushes against mine again, and once again I move my hand away but she manages to grasp one of my fingers. She’s trying to be supportive, but I find it too much. All of this is too much. I am drowning in an overwhelm of unwanted memories; suffocating in a sea of ugly emotions that should have been laid to rest a long time ago.
“I can show you the attic real quick,” the girl says, suddenly becoming very helpful.
“Lead the way,” Mari tells her.
“There’s a lot of junk up there,” she says, waiting by the stairs. “You go ahead. I’ll be downstairs.”
I start to head up the stairs and hear Mari say that we’ll be quick. I open the attic door, and the dusty, musty, cloying smell of years’ old dust and stale air hits my nostrils. Reaching out, I hit the light switch. It’s still in the same place. I peer closer to examine it and discover that it’s the exact same light switch. At least, I think it is.
I walk inside. The room is littered with boxes, bags and heaps of junk. My heart begins to thump again, just like it used to when I was a frightened boy, huddled together in the dark. I stare at the lightbulb. There’s a bulb in it. Not like those scary nights when my step dad would take the bulb out leaving me in pitch darkness.
Mari stands in the doorway, watching me. There is genuine concern in her eyes. I should be touched, I should let her comfort me, but I can’t. It’s not easy to allow someone to do that for me when my own mother couldn’t. I react to Mari in the only way I know how—to keep her out.
In the corner is the same old mirror. Dark blue plastic edging that is covered in thick dust, and the mirror itself almost opaque. I walk around slowly, my fingers touching the walls and lighting up my synapses, making the fear come flooding back. The stale stench returns too. I used to sit here, huddled and hugging my knees with my head down and sobbing, wishing that my mom would hear me. But after that first time, I knew it was no good.
She never came to my rescue.
Worse, she never tried to stop that man from dragging me up there. It was as if she gave up on me. I bend down and there, in faded writing, but still eligible, are my initials, WM, and a long list of dates. These are the dates of my incarceration. Seeing them like this, in print before my very eyes, brings tears to my eyes.
Nothing much has changed in here. The air and ambiance of this room is the same. Details are vivid in my mind, so vivid that when I wrote my first book, it was easy to relive every wretched moment, to remember every minute detail.
Warm hands go around my waist from behind. “We should go,” Mari whispers. Her face presses against my back. “They have somewhere they need to be.”
“Yeah.” I sniff and clear my throat. “We should.”
I’m the first one out of the house. I need to walk away and take a deep breath but I can’t get away fast enough.
“I thanked them.” Mari comes over to me.
“I … I couldn’t …. I had to get out.”
She does it again, taking my arm, hooking hers through mine. “I know. I understand.” She faces me, her hands taking hold of mine. “That can’t have been easy.”
I swallow and stare at a point above her head.
She leans forward and kisses my chest. “I’m sorry I asked them. I thought it might help.” She looks up at me. I had a feeling she’d said something to them. No one in their right mind would let a pair of strangers come into their home.
“I told them who you were,” she says, wincing. “I’m sorry. I thought it was important for you to see it.”
I nod. That’s why they