Day 18
I dragged my feet up the basement stairs, each step creaking underneath my weight and paused. I about faced and descended back down the steps. I went over to my step-father and bent down to reach into his pockets. Bingo.
Opening the door of the basement, I felt like a plant, forgotten in some dark corner, suddenly dragged into the sunlight—sharp, blinding, and almost painful in its warmth. Like something waking up too fast from a bad dream, still tangled in shadows but starting to stretch, craving the light even if it burned.
My mother was quiet, her deer-in-the-headlights eyes looking in my direction, but not understanding fully grasping what was going on. When she realized it was me, she started sobbing, deep, guttural sobs that made her whole body shake. But I didn’t stop. I couldn’t.
Upstairs, I ransacked my parents’ room, my hands moving on autopilot as I searched for something—anything—that would take the edge off. Cigarettes. I needed cigarettes. I ripped through drawers, tossing socks, papers, and forgotten trinkets onto the floor in a frenzy. Nothing.
There was only one other room, not including me and my brother’s room, my step-father’s study. Then, in the small desk of my stepfather’s study, I found something that stopped me cold.
Envelopes. A stack of them, neatly tucked away, six or seven in total. There was no dust on them, in fact there was no dust on anything in the room. Most of them were letters from family,
"The answers are bound where minds wander but bodies stay still."
