Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 58691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 293(@200wpm)___ 235(@250wpm)___ 196(@300wpm)
“Shit,” I mutter. Bending down, I pick up the doormat that’s falling apart, and there’s not a key to be found. Stepping back around the house, I head to the broken window I saw and take a high-heel off my foot to use for knocking out the remaining glass. A sharp piece falls from the seal, stabbing my hand, and I drop my shoe inside. Mouth open, hand trembling, I pluck the shard from in between my thumb and index finger and toss it aside. I hiss and jerk my hand to my chest. Fuck, that hurt. Looking at my hand, blood drips down my palm. Damn it. I knew that was going to happen. Flinging the blood from my hand, I grab onto the ledge of the window and use a rock lodged into the ground as a step to carefully push myself inside. Falling inside and onto the floor, my hands press onto a damp carpet. I crawl to my feet, the smell of the place is musky and making my nose run.
Sniffling, the lights from the car shine just enough to where I see a light switch across the room and I quickly turn it on, finding myself in a bedroom. There are cobwebs everywhere, sticks on the carpet, and mold spots all over the wooden wall and ceiling. The bed’s made up of purple and white bedding and I instantly remember this being my room, but I don’t remember the closet being so small though. Opening the door, I come into a dark hall, and I barely see a light switch. There’s a door right across from the one I was just in. Going inside, there’s a large wooden four-post bed, and a fur rug lying on a cherry-colored wooden floor that is covered in dust. At least there’s a TV secured to the wall directly in front of the bed, I’ll have something to do on rainy days. If it works. Looking around the rustic room it occurs to me this was my parent’s room. Stepping ever so lightly toward the bed, my fingers run over the blankets, my mind imagining my father laying on this very bed. My brows furrow at the rough material of the sheets before I press my palm into a pillow, finding it to be filled with feathers. My father laid his head right here.
Pulling my hand to my chest, I take a step back. It’s not home, but it has to be.
Turning around, I find a bathroom. A tub and shower with olive green splashback, a low sitting toilet, and sink with a counter smaller than I’m used to. You can tell this place was built a long time ago. It kind of reminds me of something from The Brady Bunch. My mom would gasp in horror of the condition of this place if she was here right now. Just imagining her here and rambling on about how this place can’t be saved makes me smile and miss her.
My hand begins to sting, and I cup it with my other hand to stifle the pain as I finish inspecting the rest of the place. It has high ceilings with a large hanging light fixture, the living room has dusty white sheets blanketing the furniture, a fireplace on one side, and large windows overlooking the front yard with the lake just beyond that.
The kitchen is outdated with a coil stovetop, a fridge with a door that opens at the top leading to a freezer drowning in some kind of ice shavings, and the bottom door to a fridge with three wire racks inside. I find some pots and pans in a cabinet and some tarnished silverware in a drawer. Where’s the dishwasher though, and there’s only one trash can. How do I recycle? Or do they not do that here?
Hands on my hips, I look the entire place over, including the orange and brown flannel curtains in the kitchen and hall.
I can make this place work. Yeah… I’ll clean it up, maybe find some guys in town to help me fix the broken window and mow the lawn for me. It’s all doable.
Turning toward the front door, I unlock it and flip on the front porch light. I’m going to get my belongings and call it a night. I’m exhausted. Tomorrow, I’ll put all those shows I watched over the years of flipping houses to work. I might not be the best person for the job of fixing things, or cleaning, but I can figure it out I’m sure.
I’ll find a store nearby and get some essentials, and some cleaning supplies. No problem.
A sigh escapes my mouth that I feel deep down in my chest. This is all so new to me and I’m scared, despite the optimism I’m telling myself. Defeat attempts to wrap itself around the little bit of hope I have.