The Mistake

Past

Nick

The house was exactly as I remembered it in my nightmares. Cold and bitter, decaying wood creaking with every howl of wind. Desolate grey clouds hung over the house like a blanket. The rest of the neighborhood was filled with run-down houses just like this one, each one with pale paint slowly scraping off the walls. No one was awake at this hour and the streets were deserted.

A shiver crawled down my spine, the early morning air biting at the cuts and bruises on my face. I'd sworn to myself a long time ago that I'd never come back here again. My breath fogged when I sighed and I went up to the house, a slight limp tainting my walk. The dried grass crunched under my feet with each step.

I knew he wouldn't be here, but I checked through the windows before anyway. His nights consisted of going to get high or drunk at whatever place he could find. He was surely passed out somewhere, miserably laying on the ground as the drugs slipped in and out of his system. It would be a few hours until he stumbled back home.

I walked up to the front door and tried to open it, it was locked. I hesitated, then I jiggled the rusty handle upwards a couple times until I heard a click, then gave a little shove. The door creaked open without breaking the lock. It still worked. I learned that trick since I was young after getting tired of countless nights having to sleep outside, waiting for him or my mother to come back and unlock the door.

I closed the door behind me as I walked in slowly. My stomach twisted at the nausceating scent that filled the room as soon as I took a step forward. I had been too young and too used to it to recognize what the smell was, but now it was so distinct and strong I could almost taste the heavy weed, the booze, the rotten groceries on the kitchen counter. And the strong acidic, vinegar-like smell— used heroin. I was anything but surprised. There were countless drugs he used, and that wasn't even of the worst ones. I wondered how he'd managed not to overdose after so many years of the same habits.

I walked into the living room, noticing the bare walls still stuck with nails, memories of a time when framed photographs decorated the bitter house. The only noticeable thing there was was his red reclining chair and on the coffee table next to it, burnt cigarrettes and a half empty beer can. I felt my head burning, and I shook my head. There was no time to waste. I had no way of knowing when he'd be back.

I turned and walked through the hall until I reached the bottom of the wooden staircase. I looked up, my jaw tightening. I reached the top and saw there were still those two rooms.

On the left, the door that led to his bedroom. On the right, the door that had once led to mine.

I felt something claw at the inside of my throat as I stared at the door on my right, unable to take a step. The sound of something dripping to the floor shattered the silence. A drop of blood stained the wooden slab below me; I'd cut my hand from clutching the handrail of the staircase too tightly. I let go and wiped the blood from my palm.

I avoided that door, walking into his bedroom instead. My head was pounding as I opened the door and stepped in, unsure of where to start looking.

I searched everywhere. Under the bed, his hidden drawers, the closet, under the sink. There was nothing except other drugs and pills and pathetic stashes of loose dollar bills. I started to panic. What if he'd used his sheet already? I knew he'd kept it somewhere near him, I never found out where.

I was rechecking the closet again, careful to leave everything as it was so he wouldn't suspect anything. I felt something solid and leathery beneath some shirts and pulled it out.

A belt. His belt.

Everything felt distant. The sight of it made the faint echo of fear crawl into my body. Fear I hadn't felt in a long time. I dropped the belt in disgust and cringed away from it. The smell, the house, the belt. It was as if suddenly every suppressed memory I've been trying to forget for years had suddenly come creeping back up and suddenly I was a little kid again. A scared little boy who couldn't protect himself, and who couldn't protect his mother.

I was going to be sick, my head was spinning. I stumbled into the night table and felt something drop to the floor. I blinked a few times before seeing what it was.

A framed photograph. Him, my mother, and a boy I could barely recognize anymore, all smiling into the camera. I couldn't have been more than five at that time. Why had he kept this? He couldn't care less about this or anything that had the slightest to do with us. All he kept in this house were essentials, he'd even taken down every other photograph there was of us, except for this one.

Why keep this one, and so close to him? A mixture of dread and hope filled my mind as a realization came to me. I turned the frame around, twisted the metal holders away so I could reach inside. The back of the wooden frame fell off.

There it was, carefully folded in a plastic wrapper on the back of the photograph; paper-thin, crystal blue and the size of a regular page. I counted two sheets. What I was looking for. Sam's salvation. I'd found it.

I smiled crookedly as I held the delicate drugs in my hand. It was unknown by almost every gang on the streets, unscented, untraceable, and only a very limited amount of it existed. This stash could last up to a year. With just the tiniest amount pressed to the roof of your mouth, the high could last you for days. But the high wasn't a regular high; it would save Red from his disease, as long as he kept using it.

But as with all drugs, there were consequences. Once you started using it, you couldn't stop. The withdrawal symptoms would kill you. I knew because my father had the same disease. Or at least something very similar. It started when I was just a kid, but he was farther along than Red was after years of drugs poisoning his system.

Once he heard from a friend of his from Germany about this miracle drug promising to cure people from nearly any disease, he started searching for every strip he could find. He sold everything we had, got in with the right people, and after a while, he'd been able to get it.

Soon enough his muscles stopped twitching, the pain in every joint of his ceased, his dementia was suppressed, and his blood pressure was stabilized. He was apparently healthy, but there were side effects. Those side effects were worse, they were what turned him into more of a monster than he already was. Erratic, angry behavior, lashing out, fits of rages and powerful mood swings. Those were just a few of them. But it kept him alive and walking.

This was probably his backup stash. In case of an emergency. He was smart. Everyone who knew him knew he couldn't care less about us. They'd never look for drugs there.

I closed the frame and pocketed the folded sheets. I grabbed the belt and carefully set everything back where it had once been. Then I walked away. I blocked everything from my mind and left, not bothering to look back. I was never looking back again.