BoyWelder's Post History
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BoyWelder 05/10/2008 (Sat) 15:00:28 #12883591


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Several days ago, my grandmother passed. She was 78.

I didn't not expect it; she'd been battling dementia and lung cancer for the last five years, as I guess I knew a little too well. But, I guess I was the one taking care of her, so of course that was obvious to me. It's shitty to say, but I think she's happier now, not suffering.

For the past few days, I've spent most of my free time moving her stuff out of her house. I don't have many friends (Grandma took up too much of my time) and the rest of my family's off on one of the coasts, so this is mostly just me. Once I'm done, I'm probably gonna drive over to my mom's to drop off the stuff she's owed, then dump everything else at a Goodwill so I never have to look at it again. Maybe sell some of it on Ebay.

I want to say that I felt all my time was worth it, and that I wish I appreciated her more, but it's not really all that clear cut. She took care of me as a kid, picked me up from school and such. Amazing cook. Grandma was also a bit batshit, even before the hypoxia set in. Really paranoid, especially about stuff like Olney (the industrial company that basically owns this little town) and the mailman (who as far as I could tell was not conspiring against us). It only got worse with the cancer; sometimes she'd crawl out of bed, step out of house, and just sit in the snow, crying.

I guess she also kept me in Rukton.

I don't like Ruckton.

There's nothing to do.

Grandma's house wasn't much better. Sitting right on the edge of a poorly-asphalted drive, that tiny brick bungalow was where I spent quite a few afternoons of my formative years. It chafed; the living room had to have taken up almost half the floor, and it's what you saw every time you came in. From there, you had a short hallway to anywhere else in the house, what little there was.

The kitchen was also the dining room, and had enough space for neither. Next to it, the singular bathroom, which always smelt faintly of rust and mold. Across the hall, which creaked late at night, was Grandma's bedroom on one side and my mom's old room on the other. At the very end was a small closet, with a trapdoor leading to the basement — at least, it would, if the basement hadn't been blocked off with some thick padding, like black bedsheets covered in mold spots. I guess there are some things you will never understand.

Finally, there was the eye room.

BoyWelder 05/10/2008 (Sat) 17:18:13 #12883601


If the name sounds creepy, I guess that's because for much of my life, I had no reason to call it anything else.

For most of my life, the only part I ever got to see was the door. Being one of the few things in the house with a lock, Grandma naturally kept it tightly locked, regardless if she was using it. It was an allure that complemented its rough, unpainted surface… well, unpainted except for the weird eye at about face height.

If that eye belonged to an animal, I wouldn't be able to tell you what kind. The iris was an incredibly pale off-teal, and took up most of the eye. Its surrounding sclera was most likely white at one point, but by the time I was old enough to really pay attention, it'd already yellowed just beyond acceptable. All this surrounded a cloudy pupil, lumpy like a cow's. I don't know if that's an accurate comparison.

If Grandma was doing something in there, she never told me what. Some days she'd disappear there for hours on end; others, she'd take extra effort to avoid it. Whatever the case, it was central to the unspoken house rule: don't talk about it.

I know she wasn't just sleeping in there. Back when she could still drive, she'd make trips to who knows where, coming back with plastic bags and cardboard boxes that entered the room and didn't necessarily come out. Grandma ignored me whenever I asked what she'd bought.

There had to have been something in that room. Every now and again, I'd hear an arrhythmic series of clicks and mechanical groans, coming right from it. Grandma didn't even have to be in the room when it happened.

I bring this up because I know I'm gonna have to clean the room out.

BoyWelder 05/10/2008 (Sat) 20:53:01 #12883610


My grandma did not have a will, so theoretically everything belongs to my mom. In practice, Florida is several thousand miles away and doesn't smell like 1960s Gothic. The living room furniture itself would be a better investment than the real estate it sat on. In her own words, she "doesn't care."

I do.

At the time of posting, I have cleared almost everything out of the first floor. The most of the furniture's disassembled, sorted into piles based on where I want it to go. Anything that can fit in a box is in one, and anything that can't goes in the flatbed. The cramped chrysalis of my childhood is cleared.

I thought the mold would be the worst part, but honestly? The memories are worse.

First was the living room. I started with the carpet, a gaudy piece I'd passed out on after a few afternoons of boring public access. Then the paintings, watercolors of farms I'd never see in Montana, most especially not in Rukton. The chair from which I loved staring out the window, the sofa that stank of mildew and Grandma, the cheap coffee table stained by its namesake, the TV that never tuned right, the cabinet full of old toys and trash. Days of my life, distilled into wood, brass, and stuffing.

The kitchen was next. The coffee maker went first, perfumed by a thousand cheap roasts. Next was the table and chairs, sans the table cover; I don't think I'll be keeping the stains Grandma left in her last days. I couldn't bear to eat here, so the fridge was already cleaned out when I got to it.

Halfway through the tableware, I realized I'd never asked about her recipes.

Nothing in the closet but old clothes and a vacuum. Nothing in bathroom but toiletries, tools, and the terrible minutes spent wondering if this was all life had to offer.

That left three rooms.

Grandma's room was first; why not start with the hard one? Maybe if I soldiered through the stink, the stains left by my dying grandmother and the clothes she died in and the photographs of friends and family that left us to rot in bumfuck Montana, well maybe I'd never have to think about it ever again. Maybe the mementos that marked her death would pass by like the wind when I dumped them into an unmarked cardboard box. Maybe I should've torched it and ran.

Halfway through, I left to take a bathroom break. The mirror reflected a 24-year-old boy with puffy eyes and a grimace.

The last room I touched was the guest room. My room.

To enter was to be stabbed by a million bitter memories. The stench that clung to the mattress, to me when I slept in it, it was still there. So was the echo, the one that carried her Grandma's sharp knocks and fervent sobbing. A painting of a fat cow, a cheap rug, the spot where I spilled some food, every little hole in the wall, all of it was there.

I got as far as the box of comics in my closet before I started crying.

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BoyWelder 05/10/2008 (Sat) 23:00:19 #12883618


Have you heard of Midwest Ennui? Magnify that by ten and you have Rukton.

There is nothing here. There's a trucker bar, a poorly-funded school system, a Walmart, some industrial plants, some shitty burger chains to compliment the singular grocery store, and too many banks. No scenic views. No coffee. No opportunities to escape but the cracked, uneven road. Nothing but the grime of flyover country.

I've lived here my whole life. My childhood was television static and damaged VHS tapes, recess in the cold and shoe-string arts departments, disgusting beer and awkward teenage fucking, dead-end ironworks and a family that left me and my grandma to freeze the moment the burden of supporting her could be shunted onto me.

BoyWelder 10/25/2015 (Sun) 02:00:00 #88888888


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There's nothing there.




house
nothing

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