House

When I was in high school I would try to be as alone as possible. It was a very hard task to accomplish considering I lived in a house with six other people in it. I would get out of bed at five in the morning to avoid the rat race of who would be getting to the shower first or the horror of hearing unrelenting banging coming from the door. To this day nothing annoys me more than someone knocking on a bathroom door. I had to wake up at least an hour before anyone else. The water would wake me up slowly, gradually. Afterwards, I crawled back into bed and prepared myself for what was to come.

Suddenly I would hear the sounds of footsteps coming up and down the stairs. Bodies trying to dodge each other in a two-lane highway. My sister waking up her kids was a feat of vocal strength every morning. Once she was done yelling at them to wake up, I would hear the two brothers deciding who would go first. The older would play the age card while the younger would respond “You know I can beat you up”. My mother would already be in the kitchen making a big pot of rice, eggs, and beans. It was a conveyer belt system of self-service. Grab a paper plate, serve your portion, pour yourself a cup of aguapanela and take a seat if there were any chairs to sit on. She would knock on my door every morning for me to come to the kitchen to eat. I’d respond that I’d eat later. We’d rehearse this conversation daily. Then as fast as it started, like those five-minute rainstorms, the noise would end. There would be one last rumble of marching feet and then the slam of a door.

That is when I would begin to materialize.  I would first access the damage left behind. Folders, papers and small pieces of rice that the dog hadn’t gotten to yet decorated the floor. One pillow would be behind the couch stuck between it and the wall. Another was a couple yards away by the staircase. The third was probably held hostage in someone’s room.  The remote would be hidden underneath the couch. I’d walk into the kitchen and put the plate my mother left me away and make myself an omelet on the stove. Trade the aguapanela for some coffee. When I sat down to eat I could still hear the house creak the way a chair keeps rocking even after someone has gotten up.

Then I would just sit in the living room until around two in the afternoon. I don’t have an exciting adventure story of cutting school. Maybe my friends at school imagined I was hanging out with girls or smoking weed. In reality, I was Cameron without Ferris. Just sitting in my quiet house. Alone with my depression. The only call that would come would be on the landline from my school. “Sorry my son is sick and that’s why he couldn’t make it to school today. Thank you for calling!”

Eventually, it would be time for me to leave before anyone came home. I had to go into the kitchen and make sure I swallowed the food my mother left me. I would put the remote back under the couch. Threw the pillows around. I took one last look behind me to make sure that everything looked the way they left it. Then shut the door behind me and haunt the neighborhood until it was an appropriate time for me to get home.