I ran my fingers through my shoulder-length, hipster hair, dusting out the occasional snowflake. It was near freezing, but here I was a 6'2" man in his early forties afraid to enter his childhood home.
I knew my father had been very sick. after retiring from his factory job, he got diagnosed with late-stage bowel cancer. I knew he'd been hospitalized with a grand mal seizure but That was a little over a year ago. He'd asked me to come home, to say goodbye, maybe share a beer at the old tavern by the lake. I should have come home, now all I had was memories and not even a drink. "Now where the fuck is that key?"
The paperwork from my pop's lawyer laid out the timeline of his last year. when chemo proved ineffective, my dad stayed in hospice care for a few months, but he opted to die in his own home. "Yeah, after the health insurance booted your ass out." I laughed out loud at my own ignorance. "I forgot this is Canada. I spent way too long working in the states."
The worst part was how many times he tried to make contact. he called my Cali home when I was in NY, Chicago, Atlanta. He'd always leave a message. Thankfully I managed to keep them on my voice mail, for times when I needed a dose of courage.
"It's your pops," he spoke slow, through pain-stricken breaths. "I just wanted to say I'm proud of you..."
*beep* 'Next message.'
"I love you and your mother with all my heart." I could barely hold my phone in my trembling hand. "Call when you have a chance."
*beep* 'End call.'
I put my phone away, focusing on the key in my hand. the cold piece of metal was attached to a paper tag. It didn't feel real. I expected the door to fly open, to be welcomed home to a warm, well-lit house. I could practically feel his soul greeting me at the door. "Hi Dad," I said as I put the key in the lock. "Sorry, it took me so long to make it back here."
I immediately noticed the door catch on something; a large cardboard box that seemed to have been there for a while. Thankfully, I'd thought ahead, to bring a flashlight. Catching the shipping label in the light, I saw a small post-it note that had fallen off. The package itself had been addressed to my father, but the faded blue paper read, "For my boy." As far as I knew that meant me. I pulled out my pocket knife and went to work, cutting open the box as carefully as I could. And I'm glad I did.
"Wow." During the final days of his life, my father managed to buy a gorgeous vintage model guitar, the kind I'd had always dreamed of owning. It was left just there, shoved into a corner behind the front door. I guess I should be glad the package didn't get stolen after his body was removed.
Ormond, Alberta was never the safest place. looking around I could already see several windows broken. Locals had already made off with the tv, speakers, and other random electronics (I had no way of knowing what exactly was missing other than judging by the empty spaces.) And then there was the liquor cabinet. The cheap wooden door had been kicked in. "Well, fuck me." Whoever passed through here needed the crap more than I did. This town had been a dying truck stop for decades. Especially, after the closure of the old ski lodge. (And that place closed in the late '80s. I don't even think my parents got to experience its luster.)
I looked around to find what I could find; there was a half-empty pack of cigarettes and numerous containers of expired food. I took a seat on a recliner that had seen better days. What did I want to do? I could have just left, driven all the way back to California, to reunite with my empty house (and my loyal pup, Diana, a three-year-old rottweiler with a heart of gold.) Then I thought about the ski lodge, Mount Ormond. I knew I had one good memory; in high school when I was at my lowest point, a group of kids paid me to write their gang name, 'Legion' in blood-red lettering. It actually came out kind of cool. Part of me wondered if it was still there.
I returned to my car, and headed up the dark abandoned road. On my way, I passed a gas station and picked up a six-pack of whatever they had on sale. My plan was to spend the night, in the snowy wasteland looking up at the stars.
That was until I saw the lights. There was someone inside. As I got closer, I could hear the sound of retro alt-rock.
"I've become so numb.
I can't feel you there
I've Become so tired
So much more aware."
There were shadows dancing all around me, as I parked, approaching the main entrance. I could feel bodies, voices, but there was no one there. And then, the pink-haired girl caught my eye. Let's just say, she wasn't the type of girl you'd marry, she was the type to bleed you dry and fuck your corpse.
The sexy goth with the candy-pink hair was laid out on the old leather sofa, legs spread, with her panties at her knees. By the light of the fireplace, I could see she was penetrating herself with a foreign object. It was the hilt of a knife, the kind you'd use to skin a deer. She was gripping the blade cutting her hands up kind of bad. The strange girl wore a dark blue hoodie, a black lace bra with a matching thong. Her eyes were closed, mouth agape as she moaned.
I wanted to ask if she was okay. Was she alone? But the words that fell from my lips were a little different. "Are you cold?"
She threw her head back with laughter. With her pale skin bathed in the moonlight; she was ethereal, like a goth angel sent straight from Hell.
I watched in shock as she removed the knife with her blood-covered hand. She licked her fingers one by one. "Do you want to help me?"
"Help you?"
She sat up, looking at me with a sarcastic eye roll. "Take a seat." She pulled up her underwear and scooted to the side to give me a place to sit. "Come on." With a sweet, sexy smile she patted the filthy, dusty space next to her.
Clearly, she was insane, but even if she didn't have the knife I still would have obliged. I put down my flashlight and removed my leather jacket. The room was surprisingly warm and comfortable despite the lack of electricity.
