No. This can’t be right.
There aren’t supposed to be any homes here. This stretch of land has always just been woods.
Shaking the confusion from my mind, I keep running.
Finally, I come upon the steep hill that leads to the back of our trailer. Kudzu vines trip me, their tangled lengths stretching higher than I’ve ever allowed the weeds to grow on our property.
Kudzu spreads fast, I remind myself. This doesn’t mean anything.
Then I see it. The trailer.
Or what’s left of it.
In a field of tall grass sits the dilapidated carcass of the only place that ever came close to being my home.
Dad and I were never the decorative type with manicured lawns and colorful ornaments. But we mowed. And used the power washer on the siding. We were handy, fixing most anything that went wrong with the double-wide.
He never would have lived in a place with a partially collapsed roof and patches of siding peeling off. He would’ve fixed the rotten front steps and weed-whacked the kudzu climbing up the back walls.
A groan creeps from deep in my chest as I stumble toward the property wrecked by time.
Years.
The door hangs lopsided on its hinges, and the wood around the lock is splintered, like someone kicked it in.
That happens when a place is abandoned.
I ease my way into the trailer. Everything is dark, and the light switch does nothing when I flip it. The smell of mold and damp wood linger in the air, along with stale beer and smoke.
As my eyes adjust, I see whoever forced their way in left signs. The orange plaid couch sits shoved up against the far wall, stuffing and springs showing from rotted material. Empty beerbottles and cigarette butts litter the floor. A broken bong rests on its side. The small TV we’d watch football on is gone.
The refrigerator door hangs open, showing black spots on the no-longer-cold surface.
Abandoned. Forgotten.
The floor creaks under my steps, the carpet releasing puffs of dust as I make my way farther into the trailer. The door to my bedroom is gone, replaced by a shower curtain stapled in place. When I push it aside, I wrinkle my nose in disgust at the smells of bodily fluids. A mattress lies on the floor, empty condom wrappers littered around it.
Everything else, all signs of my life—of my existence—are gone.
Driven by a sudden urgency, I charge to the closet, fingers reaching to scrabble along the paneled wood until I brush the piece that doesn’t fit exactly right. I pry the board loose and reach into the cavity, cobwebs clinging to my fingers.
It’s still here. A shoebox.
One thing of mine remains, and I could sob in simple relief.
I pull the box free, only to drop it. A knee-jerk reaction to the dark stain covering the sides.
“No,” I groan. “Gods, please no.”
I flip off the top, and I wish my vision weren’t so good in the dark because then I wouldn’t be able to see that all the money I’d hoarded away to start a new life is coated in black mold. The smell of decay is thick and choking. The paper money flakes off, disintegrating with the lightest touch, eaten by dampness and time.
Years.
I have nothing.
Lights flash through the window, and the sound of tires on gravel announces I have a visitor.
Why would anyone bother coming?
