Bad Luck, Baby

1 - Bad Luck Begins

For a full ten minutes, I sat in my car, unable to summon the will to move.

The house held so many memories—so many ghosts—it took an effort of will to enter every time.

It was certainly not a place I'd consider a sanctuary, but at the moment it was all I had.

With a sense of weary resignation, I got out and gathered my things from the back seat.

I had no job, and now that Jamie had 'made things clear,' I was pretty sure that no one in the whole world would notice if I disappeared.

"Serves you right," I said, catching sight of my reflection as I shut the back door of my car. "Freak."

At five-nine, I was whippet-thin. My hair was a sandy, desaturated blond, and my eyes were a weird, colorless gray-green. Unremarkable, in other words. The only thing I liked about my appearance was that my features were oddly androgynous—rugged enough for a man, pretty enough for a girl, depending on what I wanted to accentuate.

But that's the in-between space I've always occupied; not really this, not really that. Not committed enough, and not worth committing to.

Sighing heavily, I locked my car and turned to walk up the narrow path towards my dad's front door. I still called it his, even though the bastard had been dead a month.

When I'd learned he'd left me everything, I'd been surprised, to say the least. As far as I knew, he hated me from the bottom of his soul, and regretted the very ejaculation that led to my existence.

Then, I'd taken stock, and realized that leaving me 'everything' wasn't a gift. It was just one more punishment. Between property taxes and utility bills, I couldn't afford to keep the house, but getting rid of it was proving difficult.

The place was in a pervasive state of disrepair, and nearly every room was stuffed with boxes.

Boxes full of the weirdest things.

There were ceremonial masks from cultures in the Americas and Africa; bags of strange herbs and mushrooms from who-the-fuck-knows-where, handwritten books in languages I couldn't read, and random crap I didn't know how to make heads or tails of.

It wasn't the sort of shit I could just drop off at the Goodwill—which isn't to say I hadn't tried.

Dealing with my dad's hoard was more stress than I needed, on top of school, a job, and a relationship I wasn't sure how to define.

Well, now that two out of those three things had been eliminated, maybe I could turn my full attention to this problem, and get it dealt with once and for all.

Yes, I determined, as I strode towards the front door, Tomorrow I'll rent one of those big garbage bins, toss all dad's things into it, and then have it hauled away to a land-fill somewhere. Then it can all rot in hell, along with him.

My spirits bolstered by this plan, I'd just inserted my key in the lock when something small, soft, and warm brushed against my legs.

Instinctively, I jumped back with a yelp, and then looked down to see a little black cat staring up at me with luminous yellow eyes. It was scrawny and underfed, and I wondered if it was a stray. My dad certainly didn't care for animals.

Being a sucker for a furry creature myself, however, I crouched and extended my hand.

"Hey, little buddy," I said. "Whatcha doin' here?"

The cat butted its head against my hand, purring loudly. It must be a neighbor's neglected pet, I thought; my dad was more the 'poison and traps,' than 'feed the strays' sort of guy.

"Hey, I don't have anything to give you," I said, straightening and unlocking the door. "Maybe tomorrow, though. I can pick up some—"

The cat slipped through the door as soon as it was open wide enough, bolting inside with its tail held high.

I stared after it, my eyes fixed on the dark entrance of my reclusive father's house, as unwelcome memories flitted through my brain.

Drawing a breath, I sighed, and stepped over the threshold as the sun set.

Inside, I shut the door after me and flicked on the lights, illuminating the little entryway. The floor was stone tiles, the walls hardwood paneling—all very masculine and dark. My mom had basically been a one-night stand, and as far as I knew, my dad never had a steady partner.

It showed. Some people can live alone and do just fine—myself, for example—but my dad clearly wasn't one of them. With no one to hold him accountable, he'd let a lot of things go—and now, by an accident of birth, it was my job to sort through and organize the mess.

I sighed, setting my keys in the bowl on the stand by the door. Despite my antipathy, it was lucky I had this place; otherwise I'd be sleeping in my car.

Then the cat meowed loudly from somewhere further in, and I smiled.

I'd lost my job, my 'partner,' and my home, but it looked like I'd gained a pet, a least.

I should have known bad luck always comes in packs of three.