The car bumped down the road as I sat in the back, my head leaned against the window. My so-called parents chattered nervously up front. I reached up to touch the bandage on my forehead, as if to remind myself that this is real. That I was going home, that I had people who care about me. But I couldn’t seem to conjure enough energy out of my sleep deprived body to care.
So I stayed quiet, only responding when I had to. I let my eyes wander around. I saw people I couldn’t name, streets that didn’t have familiarity, and yards I couldn’t remember walking past.
Finally, they pulled into the drive.
“Does any of this help?” Michael, the man who I called my father, asked. His brow was furrowed in concern and my I could see my mother, Lindsey, look up with hope in the rearview mirror.
“No.” I didn’t mean to be cruel. But it didn’t help.
My mother coughed nervously, sniffled a bit, and started rattling off. “Oh, well, that’s okay, honey. The doctor said to show you some more places and photos and that the first couple things might not do anything. But the best thing is to-”
“Lin,” My father cut her off. He didn’t seem mad but concerned for her. He placed his hand over hers before turning back to me. “Mia, let’s just go inside. Walk around some, get comfortable. Your room is the attic, the door on the far right.”
I nodded, squirming to get unbuckled as I swung open the door to let myself out. My leg didn’t seem to want to work as I stumbled forward, grabbing the door harshly to pull myself back up with my good arm. Before I lost my balance completely, both of them were there, fussing with me and checking for injuries. After readjusting the sling on my arm, Michael made me get the crutches, lightly scolding me for not using them in the first place. They walked ahead of me, waiting for me before I waved them forward.
“I want to stay out here for a minute, by myself.” They look hesitant before giving a sigh. I must’ve been stubborn at some point for them to give in like this.
Before the door shut, I heard Michael call out, “We’ll watch through the kitchen window!” I chuckled slightly before looking back at the front yard. It has a simple garden filled with various flowers and lush bushes line the outside of the house. Some toys lay around and three bikes stood off to the side. My brow furrowed for a moment before I made up my mind.
Using the crutches, I swung myself across the yard towards them, bending best I could to get a better look. Two were mountain bikes, one a bit smaller than the other. The smaller one was pink and black while the other was green and black. Then my brow furrowed once more. The math didn’t add up.
“Hey, Mia!” A strange voice called. I whipped around to see a middle-aged man looking up at me with a bright smile. When I didn’t respond, he faltered. “I guess I caught you at a bad time or somethin’.” When I continued to just stare at him, he started turning. “See ya later then…” I watched his retreating back walk down the street before turning the corner.
I shook my head before looking around. The neighborhood looked like it was safe. Cozy with some kids playing in the warm spring breeze. Parents sat on porches watching them and drinking a refreshing liquid. But that’s when I noticed the staring, the whispering. Some pointed.
I turned back to the house and continued up to the door. Once inside, I heard the clattering of plates. As much as I wanted to sit down and eat, I also wanted to go see my room. So I skipped the kitchen and headed upstairs and to the right, where a wooden door sat. It was covered in various papers and writings and splattered of paint. Foam lettering spelled “Mia’s Room! Stay Out!” in a rainbow of colors and I smiled.
I pushed the door open to reveal a steep stairway, to which I groaned at. It was covered in the beige carpet as opposed to the hardwood flooring of the hall. I took off my shoes carefully, not wanting to jostle my knee. The plush carpet was nice and soft as I ascended the stairs slowly.
The walls leading up were painted a burgundy color. Sticky notes and various writings were taped haphazardly on the paint. Some were stained with age while others looked almost brand new. The handwriting was different like multiple people were writing things. At the top of the staircase, I turned to look into my room.
The bed was in the far corner, where the roof didn’t slope. It had matching burgundy sheets with white accents. Many pillows adorned the mattress, along with an assortment of paper and pencils. I guess I was working on some sort of homework, I concluded after limping over to inspect it. Astrology. I looked up the roof, where flowy opaque curtains hung mixed with fairy lights that also draped over the walls. I imagined it must’ve looked beautiful with the lights turned off. Photos and pictures also hung around the walls.
That was a theme in my room. All kinds of things were taped everywhere. Looseleaf papers, ripped papers, little slips, photos, posters, drawings. The walls were absolutely overflowing with them, but it gave me a sense of comfort as if I wasn’t alone. As if I really was the girl who lived here and taped all sorts of things to my walls.
A bedside table sat next to my bed. On it was various little trinkets and laying down a photo. I reached to pick it up, but I decided against it quickly. It was probably just another photo of me and my family.
The dressers were filled with clothing I liked but seemed off as I realized I couldn’t place why I did. I pulled on a pair of oversized sweats and a loose band t-shirt. The faint smell of cologne filled my senses and suddenly I felt calm, protected. Like I was home. I shook my head to rid myself of my silliness.
Probably my boyfriend, or maybe a previous boyfriend.
I looked around again. The room stayed straight for a few feet, before slanting off to about three feet off the ground. A large window laid on the roof, allowing me to see up at the morning sky had I opened the cover. Two stacks of blankets and pillows were stacked on a rug underneath it, and I tilted my head curiously. I walked over and knelt down to sit, naturally going towards the one on the right. I leaned over towards the other pile and the scent of a cologne hit me again while I reeled in.
But then I felt strange, like it wasn’t my place. Probably because it wasn’t. I was sitting in a bedroom that was supposed to be mine. That I should know where everything was. But I had to go through all the drawers to find the types of clothes I wanted. This room should feel like a home, like I could relax. But I feel out of place and awkward.
My parents sit downstairs, my mother probably crying again because her daughter doesn’t remember her. I can’t imagine what they’d be doing, or if the ‘they’ would be a 'we’, on a Saturday night. I had no idea if they’d let me out past midnight, or if I would be able to stay the night at my boyfriend or girlfriend’s house. I don’t remember what classes I took or who my friends were. I don’t remember if I smoked pot or if I was a mother figure to those who did. Maybe I was a goody two shoes who ratted everyone out.
I didn’t belong here. I want to scream and rip the blackout curtains over the windows, to flip the matress and tear the lights down. But I couldn’t. Because this wasn’t my room.
It was hers.
Something beeped behind me. I turned towards the desk on the other side of the room where a simple laptop sat. It was open, and many icons cluttered the homescreen. A picture of me and a boy sat as the background. I tilted my head curiously as I realize I’ve seen him before.
My eyes scanned the walls before my lungs took a sharp intake of breath. I realized who it was now. It was Ash.
The boy who saved my life. The boy who was my best friend. The boy who made me smile. Made me laugh. Who protected me from the bullies until the very end, literally.
Memories rush back to me as I realize what had happened and I hear myself cry out. Hands grip my hair as images of us flash through my mind. Of us in the park, of him flicking wads of paper at me, of him hanging up another paper on the wall, of us on the floor underneath the roof window. Of Ash walking me to class, giving me an ice cream cone, fixing my bike. Placing a banage on my knee. Pushing me out of the door as the man with a gun pulled it out.
He saved me, went looking for me after I went missing. I spent weeks being tortured by that ruthless man. After everyone else gave up he didn’t. When he found me that night he snuck through the basement window with his baseball bat. We waited for the man to return before he swung, cracking on his head before grabbing me and running. But he didn’t account for his friend being there that night. So he pushed me out the door, closing it while shouting at me to run.
I never will forget the gunshot and cry as I fled. His pained yowl before another bullet was shot. I didn’t look back, I couldn’t. But I didn’t make it two blocks before knocking on someone’s door and passing out from the pain in my body.
I let out a cry openly, tears streaming down my cheeks. He saved me, but sacrificed himself. My best friend, my only true friend, is gone. Because of me. My throat feels raw and only then I realize I was screaming and crying.
I can hear my parents clambering over each other on the stairs. I sob and sink to the floor, my legs no longer able to hold me. My eyes skirt over to the photo on that table as I crawl over, grabbing it and removing in from the frame. I read the writing on the back of it as they finally reach me.
In loving memory, Ashton King, who died saving his soulmate.
