Shackles & Roses

Five

Ten minutes, pins and needles, and a lot of panicking later, I reach the bedroom door. I open it with shaking hands, heart rolling over and over in my chest and mind in turmoil. I stare through the open doorway into the room I once considered home. Everywhere I can see touches of her; the curtains she embroidered, drinks we split on the carpet, her hairbrush on the dresser, in front of a mirror I never would've owned by myself, and although I can't see them, some of her clothes left in the wardrobe.

I step into the room and inhale deeply. Her scent on my tongue, as well as a lot of dust. I kneel by the bed, hands still shaking. Panic threatens to overwhelm my pounding head, and I let it rest on the bedcovers for a moment to catch my breath. Just keep calm, do this, and get out of her. That's all I've got to do.

I reach my arm under the bed into the dust and cobwebs, trying not to grimace. I swear I just felt something move. Why did I push the box so far under? I reach further, hating every moment but knowing it's necessary. It's not until my entire arm up to my shoulder is under the bed that I feel my fingers brush against the box. At this I push my other arm under, balancing precariously on just my knees. I pull it out with a struggle due to how far back and heavy it is, my awful balance, and how much my hands are shaking.

It's covered in a thick layer of dust, and I gingerly rub a finger along it, inspecting it to find it completely dark with grime. My arms have a lot on them as well, and I shiver in disgust. Cleaning is something to add to my list of things to do on good days, though I may have to ask Mum to sort this room. I'm not sure how long I'll last in here.

I slowly pull the lid off the box, trying not to breathe too much with all of the dust flying through the air. I need to breathe deeply to calm myself, but it's impossible to do when the air is so thickly coated. Either way, I lose.

Inside, there are only a few things:

Her favourite bookmark.

Her Led Zeppelin shirt.

A note she wrote me to help with one of my poems.

Her camera.

An urn with half her ashes in it.

I go straight for the camera, not wanting to cause more angst than necessary. And then I put the lid back on the box so I don't have to look at it all. I expect to find it's run out of battery after so long, but a light comes on easily. The screen flickers on, and I sink down to sit properly on the carpet, not wanting to be unbalanced while watching this. There's one bar and it's flashing, but that's enough time for me. I breathe heavier— a small part of me was banking on it having run out of battery.

I pull up the gallery, putting it into grid mode so that I don't have to see any of the photos too closely. Just close enough to tell which is which and be able to see the video. I flick through, brain hurting and hands shaking, making the whole thing so much harder and take so much longer.

I don't properly look at any; I'm too scared to. Just seeing glimpses like I am leaves me exhausted. My limbs have gone numb again, taking my brain with them. Certain photos catch my eye more than others, and no matter how hard I try not to let it happen, they bring memories with them as they flash before my eyes.

A photo of me and Bailey on the beach; I can feel the sand between my toes, taste the salt on my tongue, feel her arms around my stomach. Another of us on my birthday with my friends, all of us tipsy; I can taste the alcohol in the back of my throat, feel the music in my heart, hear their laughter. I swallow back the lump in my throat, hating the tears that gather in my eyes. So many more flash by in front of me, and I'm not sure how much more I can take. I can feel the water building up behind the dam, and it's just about ready to break.