Myra turned the page of the newspaper, enjoying the silty quality of the paper beneath her fingertips. Her eyes scanned the headlines: crime, abuse, and heartache. A black-and-white picture of a large, old home caught her attention. Her heart raced at the sight of it.
Old abandoned Victorian house to be demolished 8/29.
Myra looked at her phone. The execution was set for today.
Her heart guided her toward the home, even as her brain tried to argue against it. She ignored the pleading of her ailing mind and grabbed her coat as she headed out the door, hoping she wasn’t too late.
The drive was taxing. Every road made her heart ache, and the closer she got, the more the memories leached from them. She stared at the corner where the school bus would dutifully drop her into awaiting evil arms. She remembered crying to the driver because she didn’t want to go home, but no one batted an eyelash at the hurting little girl.
Even though she was now an adult, when she pulled up to the house, it somehow felt just as large as it had when she was a child. The windows were boarded up, and broken glass littered the lawn. No workers had arrived yet. The street was eerily quiet. With a long, drawn out exhale, Myra climbed the steps and reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked.
The inside of the diseased and damaged home brought haunting memories to the forefront of her mind. With trepidation, she climbed the rickety steps toward her old bedroom. Each riser creaked beneath her weight, creating an ominous melody.
The wooden door to her old bedroom was warped and twisted, jamming it shut. She slammed her body against it, unsure what she would find behind it. She threw herself against the door once more, and it flew open, nearly falling off its hinges. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene before her.
There was a strange familiarity, despite the wreckage. The wooden furniture was waterlogged and warped, much like the door. Water dripped from the ceiling above her, reminding her of the blood that had once splattered onto the broken hardwood floors. Her blood.
When Myra turned to leave, something caught her eye. Sitting on the dresser was a doll. She picked it up and examined its porcelain skin and painted cheeks. Its eyes were large and dramatic, as if it had witnessed the pain and suffering within these walls. Tufts of deep brown hair shot out of its scalp in patches. The dress was torn and shredded, as if a dog had used it as a toy.
She lifted it to her nose and inhaled. A nauseating aroma of dust and abandonment assaulted her senses. Myra looked down at the note around its neck, which read: My person grew up, please discard me. She lowered the doll toward the dresser, but hesitated. Something about leaving it in the soon-to-be destroyed home made her sad.
Clutching the doll to her chest, Myra started toward the front door. Her feet planted themselves in place, drawing her down the hallways instead. The stained floorboards were riddled with holes, making it seem unsafe to walk on, yet she continued.
She pushed open the door to her parent’s bedroom. The haunting smell of him still lingered in the old room. A heavy cologne he would spray, the scent undistinguished but memorable. The taste of it as it hit her tongue when he got too close to her…that was what she remembered most. He smelled like he bathed in it.
Myra could almost hear the rattle of chains and the thwap of leather against skin. She dropped the doll, lost in her violent memories. The sound of its porcelain skull colliding with the ground snapped her back to the now, where the room was empty and merely existing. With a gasp, she squatted down and lifted the doll. A crack spread across its face, parting it in two. That was how the room made Myra feel. Cracked and broken.
She carried the doll outside. Her legs felt as if they weren’t connected to her body. She saw tiny little legs clad in stockings and a skirt instead of her own as she crept down the front steps. Her eyes wandered. There were still no neighbors in sight. No one to hear any screams. The trees in the woods in front of the house were the only things still living here from her childhood. Big towering canopies covered in color changing leaves.
Her eyes scanned the side yard, which seemed so small now. She saw the rickety wooden swing set he had built for her, an apology for what would be forever unforgiven.
Myra spotted a rusty barrel sitting in the middle of the yard. Reddish brown rust chewed through the metal, gnawing it away, piece by piece. She drew a cigarette from her pack and held it in her hand. In her heart, she knew fire would be the only cleanser. She put the cigarette up to her mouth, lit it with a deep inhale, and tossed it into the can.
Flames erupted and licked at the sides of the barrel, as if they had been awaiting freedom. Clothing burned at the top of the pile. The singed fabrics and various items below caused dark billowy smoke to rise. Remnants of what had once been someone’s home. It had never felt like a home to her.
Myra looked at the doll once more before tossing it into the depths of the barrel. The flames grasped at it and pulled it into a warm embrace. The painted smile warped into a frown as the fire charred and destroyed it.
Myra walked to her car, remembering why she was here in the first place. Opening her trunk, she grabbed a red can of gasoline. She looked around, nervous energy causing sweat to coat her palms. The creaking front steps welcomed her once more to the landing. She stood in the doorway, taking a quick breath as she splashed gasoline onto the aging floors. The fumes assaulted her, spinning around her like a tornado.
She lit another cigarette with a second deep inhale, drawing as much smoke as possible into her lungs. Without hesitation, she tossed it into the home. The fire took hold, riding along the path of the gasoline with haste. The flames reared and soared, engulfing the home just as it had the doll. The blaze hissed, trying to mask her screams and pleas as it engulfed places that were touched by hands that had once touched her.
“Goodbye,” she whispered as her childhood home burned, flames lapping at the walls. As the bones of the home began to fall, the family secrets burned with it, trapped and unable to hurt her any longer.