Echo of a Bird's Cry

THE VICTIM EDEN OCTOBER 1

I'm lying on the same kitchen floor my mother died on. I'm lying in the exact spot where she took her last breath and bled to death. The once white tiles are dingy and covered with a thick coat of grime. There are speckles of rusted blood scattered on the ceiling. The aftermath of my father shoving a Beretta to the side of his temple and blowing his brains out. A kitchen is supposed to be an inviting space. A kitchen is supposed to be a welcoming space where families share meals and spend quality time together. It's supposed to be warm and loving. There are supposed to be pictures, drawings, and souvenir magnets from family vacations on the fridge. A kitchen isn't supposed to be cold and dark. A kitchen isn't supposed to be a gruesome crime scene.

I'm at my mother's abandoned house. It's a blue farmhouse with white trim and red shutters. There are rose bushes clustered around the large windows in the front yard that never fail to bloom. The house is picture perfect on the outside and terrifying within. There's nothing here except a painful history that I can't let go of. Most parents leave their children their legacy in the wake of their deaths. My parents left me a nightmare. All I have left of them is a dark past of violence, murder, and unanswered questions.

I come here a lot. I lie in the aged smear of brown blood and stare at the leftover bits of my father's brain. This is my form of meditation. I think about my mother and what type of person she could've been. It's a sad reality that I will never know.

***

I'm expecting guests. Or at least I was until I called the entire dinner off. My sister and my ex-fiancé were supposed to come over. My nerves got bad and I canceled.

I down another shot of Grey Goose as I watch the pasta noodles boil on the stove. I'm cooking spaghetti tonight. Sandy, my three-year-old pure bred Rottweiler, wags her tail as I pop open a can of tomato sauce and mix it into the simmering ground beef.

She whines when I ignore her.

"No, Sandy. The spaghetti isn't finished yet."

She pants and tilts her head.

"You can't eat everything I eat. You have a bowl full of dog food. Besides, pasta isn't good for your digestive system."

She tilts her head to the other side.

"There's a leftover rotisserie chicken in the fridge. You can have that but no spaghetti."

She continues to pant, wag her tail, and stare at me with big doe brown eyes.

I point the wooden spoon that's stained with tomato sauce at her. "You win. I'll go get the chicken, but you can't always manipulate me into getting your way."

Yanking open the fridge door, I pull the chicken out, peel the seasoned skin off, and cut the poultry into smaller pieces. I toss white chunks of meat to her while I turn off the burners on the stove.

Leaving the kitchen, I take my iPhone off the charger and open an email I've been avoiding all day. My anxiety has finally settled enough to allow me to read it.

Eden,

I'm home. I want to minimize any awkward encounters. Ravenwood is a small town with a smaller community. It's a guarantee we will run into each other frequently. You can't hide from me here. There's more we need to discuss and you owe me more than these formal and impersonal emails. You have my number. Call me.

John

John Belford is the one person I've been running from for most of my life. He's the one that tried to get away but I wouldn't let him leave me. He is my first love. He was my first everything. All he did was love me and I ruined his life for it.