Candy’s Room-Part 1

I had made it that far, farther than any brave soul had ever dared walk since the crime had been cleaned up. The open front door swayed curiously, watching my every breath. I stood there, in the middle of that modern home, on a carpet of white fluff and I looked at the room. The room lay at the end of the corridor, taunting me to come inside. The polished wood of the door was slightly scratched at the corners, and the hinges rusted naturally.  The contents of the room were minimal, just a bed, a bookcase, and a desk. A hellish table that sat in front of a window I, facing the backyard. The very yard where so many years ago 12-year-old Candy and 9-year-old Janice would have played with the dogs, would have spent hot summers jumping into the inflatable pool, and the freezing winters throwing snowballs at each other.Yet the backyard now stood empty, like the rest of this lonely house. It had been abandoned and left to die once Mark had left. And it would never be cared for again. 

As I took a step forward the wind stopped blowing, the very gush of the cold summer breeze stooped in fear of what would happen if I walked into that room. The floorboard cried harmoniously, begging me to stay away. The walls let out an exasperated scent, telling me stories of the inhabitants of this house; how the children had drawn a rainbow parallel to the door frame, how the parents had spilled coffee in the corners and chipped the wall with the vacuum cleaner. But this was not an ordinary family house. This was a parallel universe of hurt and danger, one that should never be populated again. The entire house watched me with the same precision that a lion might watch its unexpecting prey, waiting for the perfect moment to attack. 

Regardless, the room still drew me in, begging me to come and show the world how this home of happiness and family turned so dark and deadly that not even the very girl who ran these very hallways could return to the place. I looked and I looked at the room where my own sister had taken her last breath. I looked to my room. 

I sighed, for I knew that I could delay this no longer, I had to face my room, where my poor baby sister, the soul I was responsible for, had perished. I must. I must. 

And so I took another step, and the whole house stopped. Those pale walls clustered together in an attempt to block my way. The light shone brighter and brighter, like the sun on a scorching hot day. It reminded me of the beach days. 

When we were younger, our parents would take us to the beach on a sunny weekend day. It would only be an hour car ride, but to us it felt longer than eternity. I would always watch the green blurs that we called trees from the car window while my sister would be preoccupied with the seatbelt. Then, she would figure out that the seat belt can move and would request my attention in order to inform me of this amazing discovery. However, I would ignore her incoherent mumbles and would continue watching the flat landscape. Yet she wouldn’t stop, she would continue begging for my attention until my mother would turn around and tell me to stop her from talking, as it is dangerous to have a commotion in the back. Something about how this family perished on a road just like this, how the kids were screaming, how the driver turned back, how she veered to the wrong side and how a truck hit them. It wasn’t a new story. I had heard this hundreds of times before, so I stopped listening after ‘you know what could happen?’. Years later I would find out that my mother had been so cautious after the death of her own father, in an unexpected manner. I tell that story to my ‘nephew’ anytime he’s loud in the car nowadays. 

But once again I jump out of my thoughts and take more steps. I can’t be here too long or these memories will swallow me whole. More steps. Thump. Thump. Thump. I take steps on the rhythm of my heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. How far is this door? Why so many steps? Thump. Thump. Thump. Why is it so hot in here? Why is the air so thick? Thump. Thump. Stop.

I am right in front of the door now, the knob almost parallel with my hand. The door looks much older from this proximity, its wood is splintered and worn. It has small scratches all over from being constantly crashed into and from all sorts of household objects being thrown at it. The knob, a round little thing is rusted now, probably from the ammonia poured over to remove the blood. When I was much shorter, I used to have to stay on tiptoes just so I could reach that very knob. When I turned 5 and could finally reach the knob, I was overcome with joy. To me this finally meant that the room was truly mine, it was made for me. When my sister was even younger, I would help her open this very door almost anytime she wanted to toddle into my room. When did she no longer need my help? Was she 4? 5? 6? I’ve forgotten. How have I forgotten?

I once again sprinted away from my thoughts and ran for the hills. I took a deep breath, turned the knob, and the room revealed itself. The bed was on the left and pushed in the corner, still stuffed full of pillows. It was coated in a thick layer of dust, disguising the white sheets and making them look grey. When I was making my bed the morning of the day of the crime, never in a hundred years would I have guessed that that night, I would come home to a mountain of police cars and devastated parents. And that was, of course, the morning of the 12th April 1999. 

                                                                  --

I was only 16, an age too young to experience such trauma at, and an age too young to see your whole life shatter to shambles in a matter of hours. I had woken up and done my usual Monday morning routine. I got out of bed, got dressed, put on makeup on, music on, cleaned around and finally left my room to get a bite of breakfast. If I’m being honest, despite how traumatising that day would come to be, to this very day, I still practise this exact routine. I walked out into the open dining room and took my seat while my father planted himself on the couch and turned on the TV. There, a young Bernard Shaw was ranting about whatever scandal was surrounding Bill Clinton at the time. His moustache would rise and fall slowly every time he talked, and it almost hypnotised me while I ate my eggs and bacon.

Then, once finished in the kitchen, my mother sat across from me, blocking my view of President Bill Clinton’s photo displayed next to Shaw. 

My mother, a beautiful natural blonde woman, who before the death of my sister didn’t have a single wrinkle on her pale face and not a single worry within her blue eyes, was wearing this beautiful baby blue shirt, made of some sort of silk that flowed down her body and created a shapeless figure. She had paired it with some bell bottom jeans that snatched her legs and showed off her lower body. She looked at me, through those fine framed golden glasses of hers, that made her eyes look bigger, like a cartoon character. She looked at me while I ate and smiled slightly.

“You look lovely, darlin’. Did you do your hair different?” she asks, in a slow southern drawl, while not breaking her stare. 

“Yea, I got that new hair spray Mandy was tellin me ‘bout. She said it made her look like Keri Russel, but I think it's less curly than that…. Wait  a short minute. Is Janice ready? Cause if she ain’t I ain’t making the bus wait for her like on Friday.” Janice was my 13 year old sister, and more often than not, she would be late for the bus, which would result in us having to complete the short walk by foot. 

“Nah, she’s having a case of the sniffles and she came down with a fever at 3 o’clock this morning. Woke me up from my damn sleep. She’s in her room now.” I was simply ecstatic upon hearing this information. I would finally get to the bus on time and could go out with my friends after school, now that I didn’t have a 13 year old to take care of. 

“Well thank the good lord for that.” I replied

“Well now Candy, don’t be mean.” she responded. I had finished my food at this point so I stood up and walked towards the kitchen. I dropped my plate in the sink and looked towards my mom.

“Sorry.” Was all I said. 

“Go on now, get ready” she said, with not a hint of emotion. I did as I was told and went to my room, got my things and returned. “Baby, can you go see your sister and tell her bye, please?” Her room was on my way out. 

“Mkay, I’ll go.” I walked away with my bag hanging off my shoulder, my jacket in my hand. My sister's room was on the corridor to the entrance, the only thing I would  have had to do was  stop and open the door. I halted and turned, my hand on the handle, all ready, when all of a sudden, I froze . Something, something mean and cruel came over me and I decided, all of a sudden, I wouldn't say goodbye. I turned and walked out the house. To this day the only thing I regret more than leaving the house that very day is not saying goodbye to Janice. Not seeing her one last time. Not hugging her and wishing her good health. Not being a good sister.