Page 4 of House of Lies

I lie there, too tired to bother groaning in pain as my eyes flutter closed.

I’ve been on my feet all day working a double at the diner. My blisters have developed blisters. I’m too scared to take off my shoes, because it feels like they’re the only thing keeping my toes from falling off.

If only I could fall asleep right here, but my body’s too sore. I need a warm bath, a cup of tea, and a handful of painkillers before I can even consider climbing into bed.

I sit up, sighing at the momentary relief when I yank out my hair tie and release a wave of chestnut hair down my shoulders. It would have looked amazing, all curly from being in a tight bun all day, but I haven’t washed it in three days, so…yuck.

Forget the bath. I’m going to hose myself down in the shower and crawl into bed.

Let’s hope I don’t wake up in the morning.

I can’t believe I’m only turning twenty-five this year when I feel like I’m about ready to hit a midlife crisis. I’ve been working since I was fifteen. After hours when I was in school, and then double shifts as soon as I graduated.

Mom and Dad had the worst luck with jobs. Bankruptcy, pandemics, down-sizing, outsourcing, economic downturns—they’ve been through them all. I was still in middle school the last time either of them received a steady income.

The Monroes are a cursed bunch.

I lean forward, propping my elbow on the very box I’d almost tripped over as I run my hand over my plump cheeks to work some energy back into my body. I peek through my fingers, sighing when I see what’s scrawled on the side of the box.

“You’re right. It’s time,” I whisper, blinking back a sudden rush of tears.

My voice sounds so broken, I wish I had said nothing at all. I shove the box away from me, but when I stand and turn to head to the bathroom, there’s another box in my way.

They’re everywhere.

Big, brown blocks, impossible to ignore, all with the same angry word scrawled on them in black marker. I’d have packed them away, but there’s barely enough room in my one-bedroom apartment for my stuff, let alone?—

“Fuck this.”

I don’t know where the fury comes from. Maybe it’s leaking out of the boxes I so hastily packed days before the bank threw me out of the only home I ever knew.

My chest closes up at the thought, and I give my head a hard shake, some of the anger dissolving.

I don’t even feel the pain in my feet as I head into the tiny kitchen and make myself a cup of tea. But I don’t take it into the bathroom.

Setting down my cup on the coffee table, I ease myself with a grimace to the floor beside the box that tried to kill me and stab it with a kitchen knife. At the top, by the tape holding it closed—I’m not a psycho, I’m just tired.

Tired of pretending I should keep all this stuff when the person they belong to doesn’t need them anymore. But there might still be something worth salvaging inside these boxes. That’s why this stuff didn’t go straight to the dumpster when I moved.

I rip off the tape, and then lean back to take a sip of tea to prepare myself. My eyes moving over the word MOM scrawled in black marker on the side of the box.

Dragging it closer, I open the flaps and peek inside. A puff of perfume hits my nose, and I panic. Has a bottle broken? I can’t remember how I packaged them, if I even bothered to wrap them up first.

Mom had two jewelry boxes, one for the expensive stuff, and this one. I go through the plastic beads and plated metal necklaces, my face twitching at the smell of old, corroded metal.

Junk.

She’d sold all the good shit years ago.

I dump the cheap jewelry into a pile to my left, adding the old perfume bottle to it. The newer one is a fresh, flowery scent I quite like, so I put it on the coffee table. No need to waste. It’s not like I can afford perfume.

Dried up, used up, crumbly, sticky cosmetics. They go on the pile with the cheap jewelry, along with a cracked hand mirror, a plastic comb, and a tin of ancient hair spray.

There are a few flat objects at the bottom of the box. The first is a small photo album. I glance at it, but don’t open it. Her old wedding photos will just make me cry, and I’ve shed enough tears for three lifetimes.

Crying won’t bring her back.

I take out a small binder, rubbing my thumb over the black imitation-leather cover with Rebecca embossed on the front in gold. I haven’t seen this in ages. Years ago, she’d carry it with her in her purse, sometimes leaving it on her nightstand or dresser. But that was back when she was still married to Dad.

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