even when half blind inside a dust-filled, torture chamber.
“Nothing. Why do you ask?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You look like you just stepped out of the shower, and it’s below freezing in here. Plus, something smells weird—”
“I don’t smell weird!” It takes everything in me not to sniff inside my shirt.
“I didn’t say it was you. It’s probably…” he looks around. “…this router saw here.” He picks it up and studies it. But he’s lying. I’m wet and sweaty and gross and what he smells is fear. My fear. It’s hanging thick in the air…so thick I could reach out and touch it if I wanted to. I keep my hands in my pockets to keep myself from being tempted.
I can’t tell him that I hate this place. I can’t tell him that some of my worst memories originated in this very room, or that the rest of my bad memories took place in full view of it.
When I was little, I used to watch my father work for hours in a shed that looked a lot like this one. It smelled of sawdust and earth and paint thinner, still scents that usher in a wave of memories every time I breathe them in. He built things: custom chairs, tables, beds and more for people in our town and towns in neighboring states. He had a reputation for quality, and people were willing to pay for his work. We lived in a nice house with nice furniture—I slept in an oak canopy bed with little acorn-shaped spindles that came together in a group of four at the top. I can still remember lying in that bed at night, looking at those acorns, imagining I was Snow White, thinking at any minute a group of squirrels would descend on my room to have a snack, and then help me clean it.
That was before my father died and took my mother and sister with him. That was before I discovered Snow White was nothing but a fairy tale that would never come true for a girl like me. That was before I knew that sheds weren’t just used for creating beautiful things.
That was before I knew they were also used to destroy.
“Does this belong to Mr. Bowden?” Cameron says. He’s still holding the saw, examining it and turning it in his hand like it’s a long lost friend.
“I think it was here when they bought the house, if I remember the story right,” I say, working to eliminate the shake from my voice.
A pick ax sits discarded on the shed floor; I pick it up and grip the handle, fingering the pointed blades and flicking some leftover dirt off one tip. It’s weird that I feel comfortable holding this, but suddenly I feel calm. Like I could eliminate most of my problems with one swift swing and release.
Aside from the sweat still pooling at my lower back, everything inside me has settled a bit.
“So many things were left behind from the contractors, hence the crane still sitting on the side of the house.”
Cameron lowers the saw and looks at me. “What’s up with that thing, anyway? It looks like it’s been sitting in that same spot forever. It’s…creepy, if you want my opinion.”
I can’t help the short laugh that climbs up my throat and does a cannonball off my tongue. If he only knew.
“It is creepy.” For now, it’s the only concession I’ll allow myself to give. “But it’s been there so long I’m not even sure how they would move it. Too much foliage has grown up around it now. I’m fully expecting to see a tree sprout through the middle one of these days.”
I don’t say that one of these days can go ahead and happen without me. I won’t be here one second past my eighteenth birthday, and my hourglass has been flipped over with sand slowly running through for months now. I’m moving out when the last grain lands on the bottom.
“So what’s the deal with this place? It’s huge. Obviously it would have been an impressive place to live at one time, but now it seems almost run down. What’s the story?”
I blink. No one has asked me this question before. True, I live here with three children under the age of five who
“Nothing. Why do you ask?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “You look like you just stepped out of the shower, and it’s below freezing in here. Plus, something smells weird—”
“I don’t smell weird!” It takes everything in me not to sniff inside my shirt.
“I didn’t say it was you. It’s probably…” he looks around. “…this router saw here.” He picks it up and studies it. But he’s lying. I’m wet and sweaty and gross and what he smells is fear. My fear. It’s hanging thick in the air…so thick I could reach out and touch it if I wanted to. I keep my hands in my pockets to keep myself from being tempted.
I can’t tell him that I hate this place. I can’t tell him that some of my worst memories originated in this very room, or that the rest of my bad memories took place in full view of it.
When I was little, I used to watch my father work for hours in a shed that looked a lot like this one. It smelled of sawdust and earth and paint thinner, still scents that usher in a wave of memories every time I breathe them in. He built things: custom chairs, tables, beds and more for people in our town and towns in neighboring states. He had a reputation for quality, and people were willing to pay for his work. We lived in a nice house with nice furniture—I slept in an oak canopy bed with little acorn-shaped spindles that came together in a group of four at the top. I can still remember lying in that bed at night, looking at those acorns, imagining I was Snow White, thinking at any minute a group of squirrels would descend on my room to have a snack, and then help me clean it.
That was before my father died and took my mother and sister with him. That was before I discovered Snow White was nothing but a fairy tale that would never come true for a girl like me. That was before I knew that sheds weren’t just used for creating beautiful things.
That was before I knew they were also used to destroy.
“Does this belong to Mr. Bowden?” Cameron says. He’s still holding the saw, examining it and turning it in his hand like it’s a long lost friend.
“I think it was here when they bought the house, if I remember the story right,” I say, working to eliminate the shake from my voice.
A pick ax sits discarded on the shed floor; I pick it up and grip the handle, fingering the pointed blades and flicking some leftover dirt off one tip. It’s weird that I feel comfortable holding this, but suddenly I feel calm. Like I could eliminate most of my problems with one swift swing and release.
Aside from the sweat still pooling at my lower back, everything inside me has settled a bit.
“So many things were left behind from the contractors, hence the crane still sitting on the side of the house.”
Cameron lowers the saw and looks at me. “What’s up with that thing, anyway? It looks like it’s been sitting in that same spot forever. It’s…creepy, if you want my opinion.”
I can’t help the short laugh that climbs up my throat and does a cannonball off my tongue. If he only knew.
“It is creepy.” For now, it’s the only concession I’ll allow myself to give. “But it’s been there so long I’m not even sure how they would move it. Too much foliage has grown up around it now. I’m fully expecting to see a tree sprout through the middle one of these days.”
I don’t say that one of these days can go ahead and happen without me. I won’t be here one second past my eighteenth birthday, and my hourglass has been flipped over with sand slowly running through for months now. I’m moving out when the last grain lands on the bottom.
“So what’s the deal with this place? It’s huge. Obviously it would have been an impressive place to live at one time, but now it seems almost run down. What’s the story?”
I blink. No one has asked me this question before. True, I live here with three children under the age of five who
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