Any art or photographs I might have had are strewnacross my concrete kitchen counter, leaving holes in the walls from where they were torn off.
Now I understand why Clyde suggested I sue.
The damage is catastrophic.
As I traverse through, walking carefully over broken glass and dead plants, I find a few of my possessions that I'm sad to see destroyed.
The couch isn't even a couch anymore, just exposed wood and torn filling in the vague shape of a seat. My fucking TV was ripped off the wall, the mount hanging by one single screw, threatening to fall with even the slightest fucking provocation.
This place is a god damn nightmare.
I'm going to have to hire an entire cleaning team to clear this out.
Or just fucking burn it all down.
The errant thought is a tempting one.
But ultimately wouldn't help.
I've been having more and more of those the longer I'm back in the land of the living.
Violent, random thoughts and ideas that I should immediately dismiss.
Some I don't.
Some I let linger.
Like throttling the fucking cops who glared daggers at me in the hospital, spitting their venom at me like they knew I'd be disposed of before they could face consequences.
More proof of their manic investigation, my wall safe stares back at me, flung open with cash spilling out, half of it on the floor already, the other half crumpled and separated and very likely, missing at least a few bills.
My eyes roll, and a frustrated growl slips from my mouth, taking in the carnage around me.
I have a roof over my head, at least. And a fridge full of food that expired eight months ago.
Jesus Christ.
I spent almost a year living in the hospital, my only interactions the police and my doctors, and my house fucking reeks.
I slam the door closed, coming face to face with a magnetic day planner. One of the few things left undisturbed.
In the top left corner, there's a list of presumably important dates and names, and even phone numbers.
My bank account passcode, the random seven-digit code that?—
No. I just logged in after getting my phone back, and it’s still the same as before.
I was pleasantly surprised to find that at least the money in my accounts hadn't been seized. I guess there was no point when I wasn't a flight risk, wasn't even a fuckingwalkrisk.
But that code has been the same six digits since I first opened it at age 18.
This is... what is it, then?
Maybe to the business account?
I pull out my phone, ignoring the brutalized screen and blood still wedged into some of the cracks.
Several tries and different places that could be a code for, and... nothing.
