My childhood home

The six short steps leading to the back porch door of my childhood home loomed like ancient guardians. Each wooden riser whispered secrets, echoes of laughter, tears, and whispered confessions. I clung to the worn handrail, its splinters a tactile memory of countless ascents. Nostalgia surged, threatening to drown me. The air thickened with forgotten moments, and I climbed, my heart echoing each footfall. Sweat traced paths down my temples, and waves of nausea swirled within me. But I pressed on, driven by a force beyond reason. At the landing, I peered through the grimy glass window, my breath frosting the pane. The hallway beyond was a relic of my past. The storm door resisted, stubborn as memory itself. Marie, the Psychic that sent me back here, her voice rang in my head that this mission was required if I wanted to move forward. I tugged, desperate to breach the barrier between then and now. Retreat beckoned, a siren call. But I couldn’t turn back. Not when the past clung to me like cobwebs. The nausea intensified, a tempest threatening to capsize my resolve. With a final surge of strength, I wrenched the door open. The kitchen lay before me, its linoleum floor worn thin by years of footsteps. The avocado green stove stood watch; its burners etched with familial love. My mother had spun magic here, turning outdated goods from our family store into sustenance.
I touched the cold steel surface, tracing the grooves. It held stories—the sizzle of bacon, the simmer of soup, the laughter around the table. The almond-colored refrigerator hummed, its door adorned with a magnet bearing the Lord’s prayer. Food items taken from the store, each item listed. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, my gaze drawn upward to a brown-framed picture of Jesus hanging on the cross. Blood seemed to seep from His side, and His outstretched hands bore the crimson evidence of the nails that held Him there. The words inscribed below the image were difficult to read. Squinting in the dimly lit room, I recited them: “God’s will does not lead you where God’s grace cannot protect you.” The weight of those words settled heavily within me.
I rose from my seat, my legs unsteady, and made my way toward the store’s stairs that led to the upstairs living quarters. The sharp corner of the store revealed the thirteen steps that terminated in the main hallway, a passageway that separated the bedrooms, bathroom, and living room. Each step required great effort, and the nausea that had plagued me earlier now intensified. I fought the urge to vomit. On the seventh stair, a memory resurfaced: my father pushing King, our family dog, down these very steps. I wondered why he had done it, and what would have happened if I hadn’t been there to intervene. Exhausted, I reached the hallway, where more memories flooded my senses. Turning right, I entered my childhood bedroom. Two single beds stood on opposite sides of the room. As I sat on the edge of my bed, my memories flooded back to when I was a three-year-old child.

• The night was thick with tension, air heavy as if it held secrets. I heard the screams, A primal, gut wrenching sound that sliced through the darkness. I bolted from my room, my tiny feet pounding against the cold hallway floor. The dim light from the bathroom nightlight cast eerie shadows, revealing the contours of the hallway like a haunting painting. The source of the screams lay behind my parents’ bedroom door. I was on duty, the unofficial guardian of our fragile family. With all the courage my three-year-old frame could muster, I pushed open the bathroom door and slammed it shut behind me. The cacophony of water running in the sink, the toilet flushing, and books crashing to the floor drowned out the chaos beyond. It was my makeshift shield against the storm. I wanted my father to be aware that his violence was known to others. And then, silence. The yelling ceased, swallowed by the walls. I hated my dad for the pain he inflicted, for the way he tore at our fragile bonds. But my anger was impotent, a mere ember against the tempest raging in our home.
  I tiptoed across the hall, my feet barely making a sound on the carpet. My bed beckoned. A sanctuary of warmth and safety. The gray blanket, adorned with red and pink hearts, cocooned me. Each heart whispered promises of solace, of love. I pulled it over my head, seeking refuge from the world outside. But sleep was elusive. Soft crying reached my ears, a mournful melody that tugged at my heart. It was my mother; the one who knew my secret. She knew I was the one who tried to shield her, to absorb the blows meant for her. Yet, fear rooted me to the bed. What if my dad burst into the room, eyes aflame with rage? If he saw me comforting her, I’d become the target—the next casualty in this war. So, I lay there, pretending to be asleep, my arms pinned to my sides. The weight of cowardice pressed down on my chest. I couldn’t offer her the comfort she needed, not when my own vulnerability threatened to unravel our fragile equilibrium. And so, I remained still, a silent witness to our fractured family, my heart torn between love and self-preservation. The night held its breath as I lay cocooned in my bed, the covers whispering secrets of warmth and safety. But then, a subtle tremor. A heartbeat beneath the quilt stirred me from my memories and back to reality. My eyes widened, and I held my breath, listening to the rhythm of the unknown. Again, it moved. A fragile flutter, like a moth trapped in a spider’s web. I hesitated, torn between curiosity and fear. What could possibly hide beneath my heart-patterned blanket? I yanked the covers aside, revealing a child—a mere wisp of existence—huddled there. His eyes, wide as moons, bore into mine, pleading for sanctuary. His terror was palpable, etched into every trembling limb.
  Why was he here? The answer unfurled within me like a fragile blossom: I was his guardian, chosen by fate or providence. My purpose crystallized to shield this fragile soul from the abyss that threatened to swallow him whole. I scooped him up, wrapping his shivering form in the same heart-covered blanket that had once comforted me. His kicks and punches were desperate, primal, a language of survival that defied my understanding. But I knew I was his lifeline, his last hope. Down the creaking hallway I fled, each step echoing my resolve. Nausea churned within me, threatening to spill forth. But I couldn’t falter. Not now. The stairs blurred as I descended, my grip unyielding. I stumbled, but my arms shielded the bundle the fragile secret I carried. The kitchen door beckoned, its wooden frame a portal to salvation.
  Outside, the night air tasted of freedom. I sprinted down the back steps, the child’s weight pressing against my chest. The yard stretched before me, a sanctuary bathed in moonlight. And then, I dared to look back. The house loomed a sentinel of shadows. I pulled the blanket away from the child’s tear-streaked face. His eyes mirrored my own; fear, relief, and a shared vulnerability. Our cheeks brushed, mingling tears. In that moment, we transcended our separate selves. We were no longer two beings, but one—a fragile constellation of hope against the vast, indifferent universe.