Filling The Void | ✔️

Filling The Void | Chapter Eight | When I Say Let Go, I Don't Mean It

I've had a chance to calm down now and as I peer up through the dash into the dark windows of my house my muscles tense. The sheer sight of home allowing me to give into the comfort of the bed I could only imagine.

As I toss my keys into the basket by the door and drop my - already off - heels onto the ground I inspect the damage.

The house had gotten worse over the past few months. It just hadn't been taken care of very much and frankly, neither were we.

We didn't take care of ourselves or each other like we should have done immediately when mom died.

My dad and I had a period of pizza ordering and wallowing in our separate rooms. Then we moved on to actually maintaining the house, because during summer when his deadlines weren't as stressed we had time, time to just be us.

It was one of my favorite times of year just because of that - the time. He had lots of it when not at work or grocery shopping.

Though, that was gone now due to the start of the school year. I didn't have much time and it seemed like our scheduales were made to move around one another.

I hadn't seen him all day.

Aside from that though, we were a lot more content, our grief becoming less severe as time passed. Obviously, the constant silence that filled out two-story home was a bust but overall it had gotten better.

Now, the dishes were stacked in the sink, the table had something sticky on it and the pile of shoes by the door was starting to look a lot like a waiting avalanche.

Sighing at the mess I begin to pick up the shoes, one by one bringing them into the hallway for easier transportation.

I wasn't tired, and due to the hangover Kaitlyn would come crying to me about in a couple of hours, there wasn't a point in going to sleep.

Earlier I'd dropped her off at home and she passed out before I could even bring her up some water.

So, after softly placing the shoes in the rooms they belonged in I moved on to the kitchen, making a list of things to get cleaned as I popped a pain reliever in my mouth.

My feeling of complete hatred toward myself was long gone by the time the sun rose. It had been about three hours of me cleaning and my dad hadn't come out once to make sure we weren't getting robbed.

On account of me trying my best, I was pretty darn proud.

The living room was clean, no laundry littering the cushions, a nice fluffy blanket hanging over the back of it.

The kitchen had been the hardest part. The dishes were excruciating and every time I cleaned a spoon the water did it's best to get the whole front of my shirt wet.

Sighing, this time in satisfaction I think of how proud my father will be. He hasn't really had much time for the house or even me.

My mother would be proud too. We used to fold laundry together every Sunday, making pairs of all the socks while our favorite vampire Rom-com played in the background. The Sunday evenings when I'd dry and load the washer while she rinsed.

I smiled softly and turned to look out at the one room I hadn't touched, the one room that didn't need my handy cleaning services.

The reading room.

The dewy morning sun was seeping in through the screens onto the plush vibrant furniture covers. For a minute it felt like nothing wrong had ever happened. It was almost as if I could see my mom sitting on the red couch, a blue pillow holding up her book as her eyes flicked across the pages. Her small shoulders hunched over as she pushed back her short brown hair.