House of Sand and Fog

I walked in a daze towards the hallway, each step I made caused floorboards around my worried feet exhale in the same annoying, squeaky way they always did. The door to the bedroom shut with a reluctant slam behind me, just as it always did. I turned to the left to the hole in the wall sometimes known as the kitchen. I walked in to take a final look at what was left behind and on my way out, I tripped on a wire, which lead from the bedroom to the living room, a wire that used to connect my computer to the outside world. The computer -like everything else I’ve touched- died on me nine months ago. I followed the wire into what used to be the living cum laundry room. I traced a line of dust off the TV screen and tried to comfort myself with the thought that I would at least have to worry about cleaning the apartment no longer. This was no longer my problem.

A smell snaked in uninvited through the open Victorian windows, I wriggled my nose and exhaled sharply. I tried to expel the dust I had inhaled from my toil and shift the now near pungent smell out from my body. I never did work out if there was a sewer nearby or an invisible ghost with a flatulence problem in the flat. I bent down to pick up my beanbag from the corner it sat looking pitifully at the room which was now bare of my belongings. On my way up, I noticed the door to the bathroom was open and watched as little drops of water tore down the basin through a nozzle more lime scale than tap. At least I don’t have to worry about cleaning the bathroom anymore, I thought. This is no longer my problem.

I reminded my self of the times I slaved over the toilet bowl, scouring away at the bath tub and the stubborn water stains that never seemed to want to leave the glass shield that prevented water splashing all over the bathroom whenever you showered. I looked at the mould that I had watched grow in confidence during my time here and painfully admitted defeat to the grime, which seemed to grin proudly at me from its wall. I noticed the extended family of mould that was reaching around from other corners of the bathroom, migrating towards this one stubborn area that I so painstakingly focused on trying to deal with. I was defeated.

This was never my home, I never liked the apartment much nor the people I had to share it with but it was my space. It was the first place I ever (almost) owned where I could shut the door and safely pretend that whatever storm was brewing outside, it could huff and puff but would never blow me down. I drew strength from the haggard walls and dated furniture. I drew motivation from the awkward angles of the bed frame and unsightly colours of the scattered items that furnished the room. I told myself it would all be fine, that I would survive this curse and move on to better things. I convinced myself that my very presence in the room was proof enough that miracles can happen and I am but a breakthrough away from final resolution. Now, look at me.

The bailiff chose that moment to walk in to remind me of his rights and mine. As he spoke, I watched speech bubbles evaporate from his bald patch and settle like floating sheep as they grazed over where hair should have been. I fought to stay focused, I fought to hold on to whatever dignity it was I was entitled to have left and as he reached over for my beanbag and asked to confirm it was mine, I broke down.

I cried bloody tears as this stranger stood there watching, judging and most infuriatingly, carried on with his job. I fought to control the scream I felt forming at the back of my head as he delegated tasks to the men who had joined us to pick up hastily stacked boxes. Everything they touched, they lifted without care of what sentimental value it held for me. They stomped noisily about the creaking flat, their echoes sending silent taunts to me. My neck felt weak and fought to hold my head now stricken and heavy with grief, I slumped against the bathroom door and rested my head on my kneecaps, crippled. I was at a total loss and fought to understand why this was happening to me. I searched within for answers to questions I had hoped I would never have to ask; like why the first camera I bought myself as a graduation present, the first ever present I ever received from myself, the only pat on the back I had received for the four years of hell I spent at college, was now being tagged ready for auction. I dug jagged nails into my skin trying desperately to control my breathing but failed again. My insurmountable series of failures wore me down with sadistic pressure as the workers ripped my room apart, breaking one of my Venetian masks. I felt myself dissipate into shattered fragments as the world circled around me in a foggy mist of tears.

Mid sobs I peered at my now numb arm to see four half crescents formed on it. I thought about how many times I had chided friends who cut themselves up for reasons varying from drugs to punishment. Each uniformly agreeing that there was no other release they felt that came close to that moment when you dug deep and found the crimson glow of what keeps you tied to this world. I hated the thoughts that came to my mind. Most of all, I hated that I was not strong enough to see any of them through. The debt collector huffed and puffed around me and finally said time to leave madam; if you would just hand your keys back to the landlord now, we are all done here today - and with that, my house of possibilities built on sand came crashing down.