Page 16 of Ruin My Life
The family ring passed down through Mom’s side.
Amie’s box set ofDegrassiand a few of her favourite, well-worn T-shirts.
I know I can’t stay here—not with the horrors of that night stitched into every corner of this house. Not with the ghosts haunting the walls.
By the time I drag my overstuffed suitcase and high school backpack downstairs, the house feels smaller. Emptier.
I grab my sweatshirt from the dryer and hold it tight to my stomach, steering clear of the living room entirely.
I take the long way around to avoid the stains. But I stop at the front entryway, just beside the arch.
On the wall hangs a collage of mismatched frames—Mom’s favourite method of decorating was going to a thrift store and finding things that sparked joy.
Family photos are arranged crookedly along the wall, some posed for while others are candid and chaotic.
The one in the center shows all four of us standing in Banff National Park, the summer of my parents’ twentieth anniversary. The lake behind us is crystal blue, our arms linked together as our smiles shine, effortless and bright.
Brighter than they ever will be again…
I lift the frame from the wall and cradle it with my sweatshirt.
Then I grab one more—my favourite picture of Amie.
I took it last summer on one of the hottest days of the year after she dragged me out to a farm on Randall’s Island. It took two hours to get there, but when we arrived—surrounded by berry vines and sunlit leaves—her eyes lit up like fireflies.
She made me promise to delete the photo. Threatened to disown me if I didn’t, then punched me when I sent it to Mom knowing it’d end up on the wall.
But despite the pain, I’m glad I didn’t delete it.
It will always be my favourite.
Outside, the sky is greying. The breeze carries a chill—the kind that seeps deep beneath your collar and follows you home.
I push open the gate and crouch beside the flowers and candles left for my parents. There are dozens of pictures of them, but not one of Amie.
So, I fix that.
I place her photo next to theirs, then I set my MIT sweatshirt beside it, weighing it down with one of the glass candle jars.
The hole is still there—burned straight through the embroidery. I can’t hide it, no matter how much I wish I could.
I pull out a small bottle of perfume from the side pocket of my backpack.Rosewater and Ivy. My favourite. I spray the sweatshirt until the air smells sweet.
Can I have this? None of your old stuff smells like you anymore.
I swallow the lump in my throat.
“Now it does,” I whisper.
A single tear slips free, landing on the grey fabric.
It soaks in, leaving a dark blotch that spreads for a second—then disappears.
Then I stand.
Straight.
Tall.
