Page 12 of Ruin My Life

A week is too much time. They could beanywhereby now.

I call a cab to take me from NewYork-Presbyterian back to Staten Island. The driver practically salivates at the high fare he’s about to rake in, but I pay him no mind.

I don’t speak. Don’t move. Just stare out the window the whole ride, watching the city blur past like I’m dreaming with my eyes open.

Before I left, Olivia handed me a plastic bag with the clothes I was admitted in—my MIT sweatshirt and grey shorts—along with a fresh set of clothes from the hospital gift shop: a light blue T-shirt, white sweatpants, and hard-bottom slippers.

I understood why the moment I looked inside.

My sweatshirt—the one Amie begged me for days ago—has a jagged hole ripped through the embroidery. It’s stiff with dried blood, the hole scorched black from the gunpowder. The back is soaked completely red, saturated from however long I lay bleeding on the carpet before paramedics found me.

I clutch it to my chest the entire way home.

Home…

But it won’t feel like that anymore.

Now it’s just a house where homeusedto be.

The property is still roped off with caution tape. Outside the gate, people have left flowers, candles, framed photos of my parents—probably from Dad’s fans and the handful of neighbours who cared enough to remember they lived here.

But there’s nothing left specifically for Amie.

I pay the driver, step out, and duck under the yellow tape. Every step feels heavier than the last—and it’s not just because of the stitches and cracked ribs.

The air is thicker here. Heavier. Like fog blanketing a haunted graveyard.

I guess that’s what this place is now.

I force myself up the driveway. The front door is wrapped in more caution tape, and I rip it off with trembling fingers. My hand shakes as I punch in the door code.

When the lock disengages, the sound is eerie. Like I’ve shattered through a seal I was never meant to touch, or opened an ancient door for the first time in centuries.

Part of me feels like I’m preparing to step between reality and some hopeful fantasy. One where my parents and Amie are still alive and happy.

But I know better.

I push open the door.

The entryway greets me with a crimson stain. Most of it’s been scrubbed away, but blood still lives deep in the grain of the pale birch flooring.

Dad.

I step carefully around the stained boards and make my way into the living room. The smell of bleach hits me first.

Someone tried to clean the carpet. Tried hard. But blood doesn’t come out of white fibres easily. A pinkish shadow still clings just behind the couch.

Mom.

Farther along, near the garage door, there are two more stains. Faint. A few feet apart. Just barely meeting in the middle.

Amie. And me.

I lower myself slowly to the floor—kneeling, then lying back until my body sinks into the carpet. I settle into the imprint—myimprint—like it might remember me. Like it might bring something back.

I turn my head to the side and see it all again.

Amie’s face, six nights ago. Her cheek pressed into the carpet.