In which I arrive where my heart is, talk to Grandpa, and time splits in half.
Needless to say, I survived. The girl had gotten away at some point in between me losing half my teeth and the sweet release of flashing red and blue. The police came, the thugs sped away in the car while arguing who had forgotten to actually kidnap the girl, and I was allowed to go home.
It was late, darkening my already limited vision and bringing the peace of knowing that fewer people would see me. After hours with the cops, I was getting tired of turning down ambulances. (Who can afford that these days?)
One of the officers kept asking me questions, trying to get me to go to the hospital. The cop even noticed the Picasso of old bruises that covered where the fresh still blossomed. He got hung up about my age, but let it go when I said that I'd be eighteen in a few hours. Just had to give him my name, address, and contact info for my broken phone.
My limping, lumbering walk through the yard was accompanied by the soft rattle of my teeth in a bag the police had given me. That cop had even been 'nice' enough to drop me off at home. Probably just wanted to confirm my address. He stood by his car at the street as I fished for my keys in the darkness.
The porch light was broken, the work of my brother no doubt, and I could smell the faint remains of grafeti spray paint.
Again? I thought, rattling my key into the lock, This has got to be his hobby at this point. Guess I'll get the rubbing alcohol out tomorrow.
I waved to the cop and stepped inside, taking a breath of musky home. Mildew. The recent humidity combined with a leaky kitchen faucet made for a pungent aroma to go with my own. At least I'd cleaned out the food scraps the other day so I wasn't plagued by flies.
I'll finally be able to get to the sink. I thought. Then the laundry and the- never mind. Too much to think about right now.
I suppose I should explain why I was in 'My' house.
My grandfather left this house to me, which quite irritated my mother. She'd been looking forward to selling it for the downpayment on a new yacht. Or maybe a new yacht boy. Either way, this was mine now. Grandpa had put it under my stewardship. It was rather large for one morbidly obese boy to take care of after school and work, but I wouldn't trade it for the world.
This was home. Every holiday and every crisis lhad been was weathered in this home and in my Grandfather's arms. With My memories to maintained, this was a little fort of happiness that I needed to keep clean. This place mattered so much to my Grandpa. And i
Home, where my heart was.
Thankfully, Grandpa left me some amount of monthly income when he died. Just enough for the house bills and to buy some beans and rice. But he'd been a hard man and wanted me to live mostly on my own merits. To prove myself.
(He never seemed to grasp the concept of inflation. Still, I was making due.
Grandpa had gone from a poverty-stricken childhood to being a wealthy recluse in this house. He used to tell me that, if he could do it, then so could I. (He never seemed to grasp the concept of inflation. Still, I was making due.)
I kicked my shoes off onto the pile of shoes that were too worn out to wear but not worn enough to throw away. I peeled off my socks, wincing at the smell and pinching them with two fingers. I threw them into the pile beneath the perpetually open window in the laundry room, then made my way down to the basement.
It was time.
The house was made back when they actually finished the basement but came with the associated quirks. The plugs had two prongs, the fluorescent lights flickered nauseatingly, and I probably needed to check for asbestos.
But this had been was Grandpa's beloved basement. He'd spend hours, sometimes days down here. And it was mine now.
I opened the basement door into a A hallway of cramped with boxed memories shoved into a belly-brushing path. Pictures of joy hung on every wall, from my life to the shockingly innocent childhood of my mother. The foreboding oak door at the end of the hall still towered above my curve backed measly height. It had seemed big as the world when I was a child. and I still felt a pang of guilt as I touched the door handle.
I wasn't allowed in Grandpa's study without Grandpa. But of course, he was in there. It was the only place for Grandpa now.
Click.
Flipping the light on, I limped into the room. This mess hadn't changed since Grandpa died, but I could hardly be blamed for that. My grandfather was a terrible piler (even a hoarder) and seemed to have enjoyed the mess. Despite him havingFor spentding so much time in this room it hardly felt like a room at all. More like a shed.
I wove around boxes of trinkets from his travels to distant lands. Some were still glowing from batteries that should have died long ago. None of this was cheap, but all of it was memories for him. For me. I'd promised him that no one but me would ever enter this room, so it didn't feel right to pillage this room for a financial leg up.
At the end of the room, just past the enormous clock, Grandpa's stately desk bore his urn. Carved of some fancy rock, the urn stood among the dozens of photos I'd grabbed from the funeral as well as the few haphazard candles I'd collected.
It felt futile at the time. I remember stuffing the pictures into an old shopping bag, terrified that I couldn't bring Grandpa's pictures through foster care. My mother swore that the house was hers, bragging about it at the funeral. But my grandpa had been shockingly prepared for her.
The best lawyer in the city had cost more than the house did, flexing that wealth that Grandpa kept locked away. My mother quickly gave up fighting the inevitable loss of her expectations. That didn't stop her from going on about how I stole her childhood home. I think she was offended that my grandpa picked me. Heck, I'd probably be dead if she was listed as the next beneficiary.
I sighed, plopping into the office chair and getting blood and dirt on the old suede. Grandpa's chair wasn't in the best shape, but I still felt guilty about getting it dirty. It couldn't be helped, I was too tired for a shower. Besides, I was almost out of time.
Pushing that guilt down, I turned to the urn and photos of my grandpa. I lit the candles and angled the photos just right. I smiled, wincing as I tongued at the tender holes where my teeth had been.
"Sorry, Grandpa." I said to the urn, "I was going to grab a cake after work. Guess I'm fired now. But, I can get some music on at le-"
I pulled out my phone from my dirty pocket and saw the destroyed screen. Groaning, I put the phone down beside Grandpa and looked at his photos. His mischievous smirk made me smile again.
"I guess I should get to the big news," I plopped my bag of teeth on the desk, "I was a hero today, Grandpa. A real hero. You'd be proud. This girl was about to be kidnapped and I saved her! I lost some teeth and broke a few ribs, but she got away. She was pretty cute too, with tie-dyed shoes and brown hair. I hope she does well. OH! I insulted some thugs. That was awesome! Not my best insults, but I got them out. Pretty cool…"
I found my gaze roving to the clock. It was enormous, at least twice the size of a normal granddaughter clock. It was carved from a rich black wood with intricate designs, inlaid with silver and gems. There were no weights or springs visible, just a solid piece of wood with a baroque design. Topped with a graceful black and silver clock, it conveyed wealth and an unplaceable style of construction.
As a kid, Grandpa would bring me in here occasionally. I would stare at that clock for hours. The patterns felt infinite.
Now all I focused on wasdo is look at the time. We were a minute away, and the second hand ticked along fatefully. Another year was completed. Another year to go.
I sagged, feeling my throat choke up. No one saw me cry anymore. Just Grandpa. Tears spilled as I choked out what meaningful pleas I could.
"I don't know if I can do this," my words were lost among burbling tears, "I don't know if I want to, Grandpa. This is so…hard! I lost my teeth, my job, even my phone. You always said that you started from zero but never-"
I hiccuped and felt trembling weakness rip through my Spirit, nearly collapsing me from the chair. The silence was filled by the ticking of the clock, never a second off. I breathed.
"You were strong," I choked out, bitterness and guilt swirling in me, "And tall. Handsome, even in low resolution. You had it easy. People liked you."
I rubbed my nose, wiping snot and dried blood across my crusted sleeve as I said "I'm short. Fat. Ugly. @#$& deformed. And I stink. I don't know how I stink but I do. It won't stop! You never stunk of anything but Bengay. Though That…that was pretty bad on some days."
I smiled briefly, then said, "People loved to laugh with you. All they do is laugh at me. I'm not you, Grandpa. I may not be starting from zero, but I feel like each step keeps getting wider. Taller. I can't make the next step Grandpa. W-what do I do now Grandpa?"
Thirty seconds to midnight.
"I don't have anywhere to go," I coughed, spitting blood into the trash can, "No future worth fighting for. I failed a grade when you died, Grandpa. But-"
I hissed through my teeth, slamming my hand on the desk and knocking a photo flat onto the desk. I reached over and picked it up, pulling it towards myself. Me and Grandpa when I was eight. We were camping in the backyard of the house, and I was covered in a melted smore. He had the most mischievous smile and wink in every photo.
"Have a sense of humor," Grandpa would say, "And even if you die, you'll go out with a grin."
The clock struck twelve, dolorous bells toning the passing of the day. Of the era.
I grinned forcefully, pulling hard to injecting positivity from my reserves. I had to smile for Grandpa. He'd get worried if I didn't.
I spat blood, grinning ear to ear as I said, "Happy birthday Shun Mi. Happy birthday to me."
Then the clock split in half.