• I walked through the house- it was crumbling at the edges, it seemed. The walls were old, with the wallpaper peeling along the edges- the kind of wallpaper that would have looked brilliant in a living room around thirty years ago. I gave an involuntary shiver as the wind cut through the broken window along the far wall. This was no four-star hotel room, but then again, I wasn’t here because I could afford better.
    The ramshackle old house had stood for years at the edge of town, mocked by those who lived in their suburban cracker-box townhouses and subject to many a ghost story of the neighborhood children. I remember myself as I stood at the gate one Saturday afternoon as my father showed it to me. It seemed the most majestic example of architecture I had ever seen; but then again, I was seven and the old house was the biggest building I had ever seen. I still love it though; perhaps that’s why I’m here now. The floor of the house was covered in the debris of its own design- here and there plaster from the ceiling and the walls, bricks from the fireplace; even a beer can or two from the drunken parties of high-schoolers past. I swept aside the debris and set down my equipment: a sleeping bag; small camp stove; bag of easily –heated-and-probably-devoid-of-any-nutritional-content food; backpack of clothes and books. I was well-prepared if nothing else. My mother wouldn’t think to look here I guess. She never understood my father and his love of the old and decrepit, or why I’d have that same affection. I rolled out my sleeping bag and lit my little camp stove for soup. The tiny flam went to work, and soon the cold, musty old house smelled like an odd mix of warm tomato and dry rot, which was surprisingly comforting.
    Outside, the sun began to set, casting orange red light into the room which illuminated it fully. I saw a metallic sparkle in the corner, and walked towards it. It was the edge of an old silvery photo frame, the glass long since broken and probably ground to dust. The picture inside was that of a family- two parents, a smiling daughter and a grumpy-looking brother. The father and mother shared the daughter’s smile, all clustered together; they were the average family. I had to smile a little. My mother and her drinking; my sister and her “righteous rage”; my complete inability to face any problem without attempting escape… Not to mention my father’s complete absence- They were the opposite of us. Or, I should say-they were us before that day. That day that no one can mention in my mother’s presence without her tearing up; that day that my sister decided everything was my mother’s fault; that day that I first ran- that day where dad was just a six foot by six foot plot of ground with a plaque. We were normal once. I can’t look at the picture any longer. Carefully, I set it back where it was, and wipe my eyes. The tears that had gathered there sting, and I fear collapsing again. I kneel down, and try to convince myself of the idiocy of tears, try to distract myself.
    My eyes cast wildly about the room as I search for something to catch my attention- I find it in the form of a small ceramic doll lying near a pile of what must have once been the mantle of the fireplace. The doll is small and fragile-looking, one arm is broken, and the edges look sharp. Her hair is red, her face the stereotypical vacant stare of polite dolls. She reminds me of my mother. My mother was a gorgeous woman; her red hair shined in the sun like sorghum growing in the Kansas fields. She was proud of her appearance, and made sure we were too. After that day, she sat on the couch most days, drinking something that made her smell like a brewery and smoking cigarette after cigarette. Her smile was painted on, and her shining hair grew dull and flat, more like fallen leaves in autumn. It wasn’t pretty. The doll offers no real distraction. I lean back against the wall and close my eyes. I can see us before that day- but whenever I try to see dad’s face, or hear his voice, his laugh, even him yelling and admonishing- it’s fuzzy and I can’t pin down specific features. I open my eyes, and I realize I’m crying again.
    My heart seems to be splitting, attempting to tear itself apart even as it shoves itself up my throat.
    I’m disgusted by myself. My mother is crying and drinking- my sister raging and screaming- I’m running away.
    My family is not a family anymore; it’s just a group of people trying in vain to escape the same inescapable truth. We can’t get him back, and we can’t run away- But we’ll try anyways.