You wake up and contemplate the next 16 hours; days go by. You get out of bed, kick off your socks and boxers, and then you stumble to the bathroom. You slither through the crevice into an open grotto with a crystalline liquid floor, you remind yourself to unclog the drain later. You wait for the steam and petrichor to rise before you sink into its depths, and you’re done all too quick. You wish could always feel so warm and open, you decide to. You cross the border into the decrepit halls of your childhood home. You prance to your bedroom, where the lone space heater warms the immediate 6 inches around it. You flop onto the mattress on the floor, your shape embedded in it. You laugh at how empty your room is. You fight back tears.

You take your last change of clothes out of the storage box at the foot of your bed and pull them on. You walk to the kitchen, throw some nutrient powder in some milk, pop it in the microwave with the cat food you’re preparing. You press the “1 minute” button, wait 40 seconds, pull both out and stir. You look at your cats, climbing over each other waiting for their bi-daily meal. Two of them are already gone, moved out with your sister. You miss them, a little. About as much as you miss her. You ponder why. You poor out the cat food in 3 little piles on the floor. All your dishes had already been taken.

Today is a cleaning day. All the furniture has already been taken, you just need to work on the floors, the walls, the big desk in your moms room, and the gutters. You return to your room, rip your sheets and blankets off your mattress, lift your mattress onto its side and slide it into the garage with the rest of the things you won’t be needing anymore. You mozy back to your bathroom, you stare at yourself in the mirror, and decide. You open the cabinet, grab your mom’s old pills, and pop four Oxies. You’re going to have a good day, before you go.

You go about cleaning the floors and walls, leave it clean for the next person, you don’t feel a thing. You go into your moms room, turn the lights on, and stare. You marvel at how barren and empty it is. How different it looks than the room you had practically lived in the few weeks before she died, taking care of her. You note how sad you feel, and then you note that you shouldn’t feel sad. She said she didn’t want you to. You do a 180, close the door, and go take a fifth pill. You’ve lost all feeling in your extremities. You spend the next few hours cuddling with the three cats you have left. You’re alone, except for them. That will make it easy, you think. Nobody in the way, to remind you.

You climb up onto the roof, this time without a ladder. You scratch your wrist on the rusted chicken wire you used as a cat cage. You note the symbolism, you keep climbing. You reach the top, and marvel at how decayed the roof is. It must have been the rains. You consider all the things left you have to do. You wonder whether or not you should finish your senior project before you go. You catch yourself looking for metaphors. You tell yourself to stop. You work at the tiles for 5 minutes. You lose interest and crawl up to the top and look over. You estimate the 46 foot drop ahead of you. You watch the sun set. You catch yourself looking for metaphors again. You laugh at yourself. You look at your childhood friends house. You wonder how he would feel when or if he found out. You allow yourself to look for metaphors. You reflect on your past for a couple minutes. You hear your front door open.

You look, and see your brother walking towards his car, carrying your mothers ashes. He yells out “I’m taking moms ashes, I’ll be back in a couple hours!” “Okay!” you yell. “Bye.” You whisper. You climb back to the top, you wonder what your last thoughts here should be about. You sit on the ledge, tap your feet on the wall. “Maybe I’ll come back later” you think to yourself. You clean that section of gutter, slide over, and clean the next one. You think to yourself “there’s no I way I can do all this in a couple hours.” You climb back down, go inside and play with your kitties for a bit longer.

You reflect on how glad you are that you’re finally moving in with your dad. You’ll have to tell people that, when they ask how you feel about it. You just want to leave that house, get started on your adulthood. You reflect on reflecting. You reflect on how bored you are. You reflect on how this house depresses you now, how its meaning has changed.

Your brother comes back, you put your remaining things in his car, you turn off the lights, lock the doors, leave the key for the neighbor to feed the cats, and leave.

You swerve down the hill, you look up, you see your house fading away. You decide to remember this moment. You reflect on how your childhood is dead now. You reflect on how excited you are to start being an adult. You reflect on why you still feel bad. You evaluate your problems. You consider the probability of people thinking you’re suicidal. You decide you should probably get started on counseling, that’ll calm people down. It might help, too.