I’m going to move in about a month, away from the house I’ve lived in all my life. Now, I was quite excited. My parents built this house, but it’s always lacked personality: to me, it has always felt like a great, gray, cold block of a building instead of a “home”. I am still thankful, I suppose, for everything my parents have given me, but that’s besides the point.
Since I’m in film school, I had an idea when I was all alone today. I thought I might make a video about my house, before I lose the chance, so I can keep the memory of where I spent my childhood: as a chid, I wasn’t really allowed to play with other kids or go outside all that much, so I spent most of my life in these walls. During golden hour, I took shots of various places in my house and all, nothing out of the ordinary. At least until I got to the storage.
I’ve always been scared of that place, at least when the lights are out. Even now, when I’m an adult, I can’t turn with my back to the storage when the lights are off. I have to turn the lights on, or else I have to run away. Besides that, I always get scared with my back turned to empty spaces. I always get scared when people get close to me: it’s why my first and last boyfriend broke up with me. I never knew why; no, that’s not completely accurate. I had forgotten why.
I kept the storage for last, since it’s in the lowest part of my house, and I started filming in the attic. What better way to get over my fear, I thought, than filming the room in the dark, to remember forever? It’s almost poetic, really.
I opened the door, and looked through my camera. Somehow, I couldn’t bear looking at it with my naked eyes. The way the shadows fell over the underlit pantries, and cooking supplies, and toilet paper rolls reminded me of something. A memory I had buried.
You see, since my parents built my house right before I was born, I knew that whatever feeling plagued me couldn’t have been ghosts. I’ve been here as long as this house, but I was wrong. There are ghosts here, though not of the kind one would think of when thinking of haunted houses.
My house is not cold, but I lied to myself and pretended it was, or else I’m reminded of the warmth I tried to forget. Of sweat I was too young to understand. Of sounds I couldn’t comprehend. Every minute I have spent here, I’ve been forced to live near the storage. That place I’ve always feared. But I know it wasn’t the place that I had to fear: it was my parents.
Now that I’ve remembered, I feel like I can’t forget what they did to me; how could I? Yet I’m typing this, instead of getting out, making plans to flee from them. I know now what they have done, but I have forgotten countless times before.
I know I will forget again. I know that no matter where we go, there will be a storage, and I’ll be afraid of turning around. I’ll be afraid of the dark.