By Laura Casado
I slumped into the room where it seemed everything was always on the floor, broken jumbled pieces that I walked on day after day. Taunting manifestos that chaos reigned supreme because there was never time. Things were a mess and they stayed a mess because moving on and doing better starting now didn’t work. It just added clean piles atop the rubbish.
Polished layers on a withering foundation.
I wanted to go back and fix what was damaged underneath. On the carpet the light pink nail polish splotch from Kirstin rushing when we were late Friday night, on the dresser Dannah’s Disney-lettered “D” necklace that I had taken off when she started puking. Dirty clothes hiding shoved under pillows, crumpled in shame. Fake eyelashes batted glitter and dusty glue, forgotten on the window sill.
I dumped my bag in the barely vacant square foot of doorway and stepped across the room. I lifted my foot away from the piles of papers and papers of lists of things to do and so many so many things to do.
I tucked my knees up onto the bed, squeezing tightly into myself, away from the rest.
Her voice yelled brashly from downstairs, “You had better clean up that room before you leave, young lady, I’ve had it with your leaving it looking like a pig sty, you will obey our rules, this is our house. Not yours.”
I left that night to rehearsal, wiping my boots on the entryway rug.