Death.
It's only a five letter word. Two vowels, consonants three, one syllable. What's the exact definition? Is there an exact definition?
If you were to flip open a dictionary and skim the pages for the word death, you might find something like this
death [deth]
noun
1. The act of dying: cessation of life.
2. The permanent ending of vital processes in a cell or tissue.
3. The action or fact of dying or being killed.
And it goes on to explain how the word death could be used to personify the destroyer of life, etcetera. But that's so technical, so researched and fact based. What is death, really? Is it only the end of life?
Well, none of us would know. None of us have been dead before, and, although some of us can say we've skimmed the border between life and death, none of us have been truly dead. What does it feel like? Is it peaceful, it is bliss?
Thoughts like these torment me day and night. Mostly questions, wonderings about what it's like to cross to the other side. And for a long time, I wished I could cross over, and leave this world behind. If there's is a heaven and hell, heaven and death is most certainly life is hell.
That, I suppose, is the true reason why we've moved to Castle Hill, Washington from Sacramento, California. My morbid thoughts on taking my life pushover scared my pushover parents, so they packed their bags and decided we needed to move across two whole states to escape the demons that burned inside of me back in California.
As If they still don't burn within me in this small, cold town.
"Jane. Jane, are you listening?"
I look over at my mother who stands with her hands on her hips, her dark hair thrown into a messy up-do.
"Unpack these plates. They can go in That cupboard over there."
I reluctantly comply, sliding the box across the counter and pulling out stacks of white china.
"This house is weird," I remark wrinkling my nose at the layer of dust coating the shelves inside the cabinet.
"It's not weird, it's historic. It was built in 1923, you know."
I sigh, carefully arranging the plates.
It's not hard to believe this house is roughly ninety one years old. The exterior is made of grey stone, and I'm sure it was highly expensive in its day. It's mansion sized, which is way too large for three people, but my fathers happens to be obsessed with things antique-homes included. Even if said home is two miles from the rest of the town, and off a dirt road.
The house looks like the type that was passed down through a wealthy family, with its high ceilings and large front door. Two grand staircases connect the first floor to the second in a large foyer, and a large crystal chandelier that hangs above the front door.
My father, being a history nut, was ecstatic when we found a house in all its retro beauty. No, we couldn't have gotten a house in one of the neighborhood ms close to school, we needed a historic house.
My parents are what you would call "quirky". They are both teachers, my mother an elementary school teacher and my father a professor. They worry about virtually everything in my life, from whether my socks are warm enough to my close encounter with death.
I do not blame them. Suicide isn't taken lightly. But they treat me like I'm a house of cards, a fragile shard of glass that's just waiting to break again. And I don't like being treated that way.
I break into a fit of coughs as I open another cupboard, dust flying out of it and into my lungs.
"God, I couldn't the last owners of this place have at least cleaned up a bit?" I stutter as my coughing ceases.
"No one's lived here for a few years, the house was one the market for a long time," my mother says simply.
"I can tell," I mumble and she shoots me a look.
"Why don't you go unpack your room, I'm sure there's less dust in there."
"I don't even know if I remember the way to my room."
My mother shakes her head, a small smile on her face from my sarcasm. "Chin up, honey. Remember how you said you'd try to be more optimistic?"
I sigh, shutting the dusty cupboard. "Yes," I grumble.
"Good. Now, put on a smile and go start unpack that lovely room of yours." She smiles widely and I put on a fake smile back for her.
I trudge up one of the staircases, looking at the enormous chandelier hanging above the foyer. God, this place is old.
The top step creaks as I reach the landing of the second floor, my eyes moving past each of the bedroom doors until it lands on the room I claimed as mine.
I push open the ornate wooden door and take in the room once again.
My white bed frame is already set up, with boxes filling just about every corner of the room. A large window looks out on the back of the property, extends where the huge backyard, the grass in the yard a vivid green. An old mirror is propped up against a wall. we found it in this room when we moved in. It's nice, I guess. My mother told me I could have it in here if I want, or else they'll put it in the guest room.
I walk over to a box labeled "clothes" and decide that's what I want to get
unpacked first.
The closet is walk-in, and big enough to accommodate my limited clothing style. I'm a minimalist when it comes to most things, fashion included.
I sigh and open up the box, an avalanche of packing peanuts spilling from the cardboard. I grimace. I've always hated these good-for- nothing Styrofoam packing peanuts. However, my parents love them.
I pull jeans and shirts from the box, moving to my closet.
I groan as I catch sight of the dusty shelves.
"Damn dust," I mutter, swiping my hand across the surface and leaving a trail of clean space on the shelf eyelevel with me. The dust flies into the air in a disgusting cloud, swirling through the air
I place some hangars on the built in racks, trying to ignore the abundance of dust. I'm about to go downstairs and get a duster when my eye catches on something.
It's a small box, shoved in the corner of one of the shelves. I furrow my brow, reaching out and grabbing it, more dust flying from the shelf. I cough and run my hand over the top of the box, clearing some of the dust away.
I sit down on the bare mattress resting in my bed frame, setting the small box in my lap. It's black, with an ornate silver design on the top of it. I run my fingers over the smooth outside, intrigued.
Maybe this belonged to the previous owners, and they forgot to take it with them when they moved?
I lift up the top of the box curiously.
The inside is black velvet, and it's a small space. There isn't a single speck of dust inside the box-but that's not the odd thing about it.
The only thing that sits inside the small box is a single Polaroid photograph.
It depicts a boy who looks a bit older than me, with dark hair and light eyes. A smirk is painted across his lips, his hands behind hiss back as he leans against a wall. I wears a crisp white sweater and black jeans, the half smile on his face almost haunting.
I flip the photo over, searching for some sort of indication as to who it might belong to.
Nothing is written neatly penned except for two initials:
H.S.
Turning it back to the front, I stare at the photograph for a while, studying it.
And the only thing I can manage to think as I analyze this simple, random photograph is that this boy in the picture is one if the most intriguing and beautiful sights I have ever seen.