Bent Words

Bent Words

January 27, 2011

At Mountain Village, there's a sign posted in every corner.

"Fire alarm test this Friday at 3:00pm."

I'm staying here, at my ex boss's place (as he was recently fired), because my boss is in Missouri with his family. And because it's close to work.

It's also close to my old, blackened and burned apartment building.

So close I could throw a stone at the boarded up square that once was my kitchen window. So close I could toss a baseball into my living room considering the lacking roof over what were all of my belongings. From Jarrett's patio, I could spit on my old dumpster, kick over my old recycling bins, read without squinting the posted cautions, "NO ENTRY ALLOWED."

No entry allowed.

From the street you can see the Miguel Duhamel poster frame which hung over my computer desk. You can see the signed Pascal Picotte poster frame followed by the painted HMC Racing frame to be completed by the Honda VFR poster frame I carefully hung on the opposite wall.

You can also see the beams, separated by the sky, which once comprised my ceiling.

The snow, you can see, from the gaping hole that was my living room window, piled up upon the blackened belongings I once called home. For twelve years.

What you will not spy are the intermittent living room lights, glowing against the darkness as you drive by.

There are no cars parked on the street or in the driveway. No people making their way in or out, save for the occassional looter who's made his way through the changed locked doors.

You won't see tacky Christmas lights, hanging from the bedroom of those who had not yet taken down decorations.

You won't see cats lingering in the outline of the evening.

There's nothing of life to see.

This place is gone.

Yet I can't take my eyes off of the place.

I can't shut the blinds of my boss's patio door. I can't stop stalking the space that makes up his little concrete slab outside. I can't leave my stare off of the dilapidated roof, the unnecessary electricity wires.

I can't stop thinking about the first day we checked out the place, Chi and I; me in my summer dress, he in his work clothes. Asking questions and wondering where we'd put our things.

The day we moved in with the help of friends, carrying our heavy objects up two flights of stairs.

The day he moved out and took everything with him. The bed, the curtains, the couch, the silverware. The hook that held his RC place on the wall where my desk would then sit.

I can't stop thinking about it. Wondering what it's like up there where no one is allowed to go. I can't stop seeing someone else gaining access, somehow, intruding upon the things that once were all mine, behind locked doors.

I know what it smells like. The black smoke. I know what it looks like. Charred beyond recognition. I know what it should be.

It should be mine.

My space, my memories, my floors, my place.

My home.

It should be mine.

It should not be that I'm staring at the place from across the parking lot, wondering what the hell happened. Wondering if anything's left. Wondering how dangerous the stairs really are. Wondering what all I have to do now. Wondering who needs me to get what done. RIGHT NOW.

It should not be that I'm still standing here, outside in the cold, guarding my old building as though there were anything left to guard.

It should not be that I have to guard so closely the things I DO have right now. My loaned sunglasses and loaned backpack and my cell phone and my chapstick. I can't let them out of my sight. I can't fathom them being taken away.

It should not be that way. So hard core.

But it is that way.

And some day I'll get over it.

But not today.

Today I'm just pissed off.

I'm pissed that you took away all my shit. That I have to start over as though I were made of money, making good numbers at work. I'm pissed that I live out of plastic bags from the few things I had to purchase from Walgreens. I'm pissed that I don't have a shelf or a table or a spot on the floor to put these few things.

I'm pissed.

I'm pissed that all my clothes fit into a garbage bag and that I have to do laundry every day to keep up. I'm pissed that I have to rely on others and their kindness. I'm pissed that everyone feels as though they have to help and that they get frustrated when I don't know what I want or where I'm going or what the fuck I'm just doing right now. I'm pissed that I have to be this big fucking girl and get by nobly every second.

I'm pissed that I have so much to do without more hours in the day with which to do it.

Fuck you, fire, and fuck all your fury.

Fuck you.

Written at 7:26 p.m.