I’m back here again, strutting down the dank hallways I used to inhabit. The graffiti is a bit more ragged than I remember. The windows are nailed shut as if to hide the rot of the walls, although, the wood seems just as crummy. Why am I here? Let him stay in this pile garbage if he really wants to!
My parents died in a car wreck five years ago and my brother has been walled up in our childhood apartment since. He insists that he “Feels drawn there”. The times I have spoken with him made me think he was catatonic, as he would speak with a very slow cadence, like he was remembering his life, after one aspect at a time.
Our old building had been bought by a corporate landlord a little after my parents were killed and everyone in the building was paid to move out. My brother was the only one who didn’t want to let the place go. Since my brother was the only Tennent, the city wasn’t encouraged to mandate upkeep. My brother was allowed to stay, despite pressure from many directions. The buyers sat waiting, as they couldn’t do anything with the old block until he left.
I wasn’t sure why my brother felt anything for that place. After the funeral, he insisted he felt drawn to the building, and was going to reside there until that feeling went away. Him being an attorney, I figured he would stay a week and retreat back to his life. Me being wrong was an understatement as he took a liking to the place as if it were an esoteric church. I tried to tell him that it wasn’t just HIS choice weather or not we took the money, but I was shocked to find the apartment left in his name. There he waits, wilting with the whole building.
I was afraid to speak with him after the funeral. I would call occasionally but didn’t enjoy talking to a talking corpse. I don’t know why he had to throw his life away, but it made me uncomfortable. Last time I spoke on the phone just gave me the creeps with his new cryptic way of speaking. I would tell him our parents would hate to see him like this and they aren’t “drawing” to that place. My brother would just tell me “Not them! Someone else!”. I didn’t want to play his game, but family was starting to talk. I would receive texts from cousins that they missed us, and they wanted to see Matt again. I found out an uncle was dying and didn’t want him to not be there for our cousins. I decided to drive back to our home city and get him. Heck! Maybe we could get good money for that place.
I drove into town on Tuesday and looked in awe at, what appeared to be, a new city. This place got a makeover that you think would be impossible. stopping at a red light, I glanced at a Chase bank that used to be a deli I’d hang out in after school. The light taking extra-long gave me time to study the new demographic of people walking in and out of that building. what used to be teens, construction workers on break, and a few local weirdos, were now white-collar stiffs. I wanted to scoff at the mixture of programmers, accountants, stockbrokers, etc, but found it hypocritical as I am an engineer and probably replaced my share of citizens in my current city. I almost forgot why I came back, when I noticed my old neighborhood from ten blocks away. It was a pimple left over from its dirty days. The only street not made to shine.
I turned into the block and saw my whole childhood boarded up. I could almost see the old creeps haunting the debris filled corner stores. I stared at the hardware store which looked like an art exhibit on decay. It almost looked like it could have been open if it weren’t for the lack of tools, people, or anything. It was as if the floor opened, and everything got swallowed into a dense void. I drove up to my old building that was stained with moss dirty paint. I parked and glared at it. Something about visiting your old residents after it has been left and turned to trash kind of makes you feel angry for ever living here. I took a deep breath and walked in.
I struggled past the chipped steps I used to play on as a young shit. The whole area is covered in grime and broken glass from the teenagers who think this building is abandoned. (weird that this place is condemned and not abandoned). I dredge past the windows that used to face a garden, but now reveal the skeleton of the courtyard we used to cause mischief in. I focus on the metal slide I snapped my leg on when I was seven and feel a sense of karma that its leg is more mangled than mine was. I see shards of the old club house where I wasted time fooling around with one of the neighbors. That shitty structure sat more broken than I was when I squandered my virginity that night fifteen years ago. Finally, I stared at the tagging that wasted away through my whole childhood, which just read “zep…”. It used to say Zepplin, but the decay had wiped it, as well as the metal husk we called a playground, out…… I continued my march!
I stomped through the area my parents would maul each other before work every morning. They continued this sacrificial ritual right up until they were slaughtered. I pressed my fingers on the markings my father’s keys would make as he leaned against the wall and was shocked to find another mark right next to his, as if someone were trying to continue the tradition of traumatizing other children.
I choked my way to the front door which looked rustier than the festering playground outside. I stared at the numbers that looked as if father time had grown claws and tried to tear them out along with the paint. Other than that, the door didn’t appear anymore beat up than when I snuck back in as a teenager. I was about to knock but figured I would just jam the door open. It felt stupid knocking on the door of a place that, not only did I used to reside in, but didn’t even want to go into. I yanked out my old key but was shocked when the door creaked open with a little nudge. (The lock moved but my brother remains.)
I took one step in and felt the warm air wash over me. It was as if every smell from my youth rushed back to give me a taste of what I’ve been missing. Our dog Lucky, dad’s bad breath, and mom’s famous Hamburger Helper. (I found out she didn’t invent Hamburger Helper when I turned sixteen. I don’t think I ever got over it.) I was a little impressed that our home looked almost identical to how I imagined it. The couch where we used to wrestle looked………fixed. The front right leg had snapped after I slammed my brother on it during one of our romps. Come to think of it…….A lot of furniture looked repaired. The counter no longer had a scratch on it from when mom dropped our favorite popcorn bowl, dad’s recliner no longer had rip marks on its leather arms from his tense nights of watching football, and my school project was sitting on the coffee table…..not broken. My eyes glided through the living room and kitchen trying to figure out why this place appeared different. It felt like I was watching an old show from my youth as opposed to visiting my family apartment. I turned and saw the door to my Matt’s room sitting at the end of the hallway. I strolled up the colorful path of our old rug to check on Matt.
My hand touched the doorknob, and for the first time in years, I heard his voice in person.
“Stop! don’t come in!”
“Why?”
“You won’t like it.”
Not wanting to scare Matt out of my life, I complied.
“Hey man……Let’s go!”
“Why?”
“You’ve been here for years. You’re the only one left in the building.”
“I’m still feeling drawn here.”
“You’ve been drawn here for half a decade, and it’s ruined your life. This isn’t good for you.”
“What does it matter?”
“Matt! You are, or used to be, an attorney! Now, you’re sounding like an angsty teen!”
Matt got a little quite after I said that. God Damit! I scared him back into his own head. I took a deep breath and sat on the floor. Matt didn’t need tough love right now. Matt needed someone to understand him.
“Ya think our parents want you here?”
“Not our parents…….Someone else.”
“Who?”
“You know.”
Matt got very cryptic over the last five years and liked to insinuate there being some force. I figure he meant our parents, but he would correct me.
“How long will you stay here?”
“Not sure.”
I glanced at the doorknob shinning on my face as it invited me to open the door to see my brother for the first time in years. To be honest, I was sort of afraid to see Matt, as it felt like looking at some forbidden fact of my life that I didn’t want to see. Although I don’t think he wanted me to look at him anyways, I reached for the doorknob to tempt myself.
“Don’t! It’s not pretty.”
I place my hand down.
“What can I do to get you out of here? You’re the last one on the block.”
Silence caressed the air around me as I waited for an answer. I counted the cracks on the door which seemed to be sprouting more with age. I considered leaving until I heard a noise emanate out of Matt’s room.
“Go upstairs…..To that shed on the roof! There is a note I want to read. I would go myself, but….. I feel like I shouldn’t.”
“If it’ll get you out of here, then I’ll search that shed.”
Not wanting to stay in our old home much longer, I plucked up to action.
I trudged back through the catacombs of my youth while trying not to look at the vermin that grew since most of the inhabitants of this building had vacated. The creeks of the stairs leading to the roof caused an assault of memories of all the times I scraped my legs running up and down these stairs. With every next creek, I would hear the wail of a parent scolding their kids for invading the roof after telling them how deadly it was up there. Never knew of anyone personally, but there was always the news of a kid getting lodged into a small space and never being seen again. On the fifth step, I could almost hear the creek make out the name James. James was a neighbor kid who vanished after he decided to come up here. Body was never found, but dad told me he got decapitated by a sharp object. I get to the top and shove the door open and get a dose of that frigid roof air.
I glared at that shed……..The miracle on the roof. It’s a miracle it was still there after the abuse of this building and crummy city air. I forced myself to go to the shed where every step gave me stress that I would describe as holding in a lie and a shit. The wind had a vendetta and got rougher with each step. The wind always had a rough edge up here that was hard for me to describe. Less of a wind and more of a banshee’s shriek. It was the screams of all the kids who died in those myths who never existed. I tugged on the door, causing it to snap at my face. all I saw were shards of matter pointing at me as if I were on trial for murder. The only piece of matter that stood out was a plain patch of paper under one of the shards. I cut myself snatching the paper and sprinted to the stairs.
I slammed the door to the building open and booked it down the tetanus filled stairs. I ran into the door to our old place and shimmied in.
As I took my second step to Matt’s room, I glanced at the letter in my hand. It was in a pink envelope and was signed by both my mom and my dad. I felt an interest in reading it but stopped as it gave me a sense of sadness that I couldn’t explain. It was as if I were exploring a room in an aunt’s house I wasn’t supposed to. I took a deep breath and sidled to Matt’s door.
I stood, about to knock, when I heard his voice.
“Hey. Did ya get it?”
“Uhhh. Yeah. Hey! What is th……”
“Slide it under! Please!”
I pushed the paper under his door. I heard it glide to his foot, followed by light sobbing.
“You okey?” I enquired.
“Thank you. You were always helpful.”
“Matt!?”
“The note is from Dad to both of us………..It says-“
“Stop! I don’t need to hear it.”
Matt went silent as if he were tv that was quickly unplugged.
“Are you ready to leave?”
I got no answer. I figured I startled him with my lack of interest in our father’s letter, but I figured it wouldn’t really say anything. Nothing I cared to read, anyways. I always wanted to keep moving forward with life and didn’t feel like my dad could say anything that would give me any closure.
“Matt? We can talk about it later………Matt?!”
I lightly touched the door, and it began to creek open………..Empty! No furniture and no Matt. All I saw was rusted wood and a boarded-up window. Surprisingly, I didn’t see any dust in this room. All I saw was the note I slid under the door. It had just been a newspaper article about a closure in the neighborhood. Some Diner that I went to as a kid. I turned around and left the room.
I walked out of our old apt. The place didn’t seem as well kempt as I thought it was when I first walked in. Much more dust than I thought. There was a rusty pan in the kitchen we didn’t watch. I walked out the door and made way downstairs to the exit. Leaving the building made me feel like an urban explorer just looking for kicks. I walked towards Fulton St. feeling a bit hungry. I went into one of the last remaining restaurants on the block.
While waiting for my order, I dug through old messages I sent my brother and realized they were all just drafts. I hadn’t sent a single one nor did I respond to his message from a while ago. I had forgotten what the message said. I looked back and it just read;
[Hey!
Can we talk? I’m really feeling this!]
My burger has come while I sit and decide if I want to call Matt.