Page 5 of Paradox
I’m nineteen, I shouldn’t be so scared of my parents. But after seeing how they reacted when Wootek announced he was dropping out of premed to transfer to art school… That was enough to scare my six-year-old little self straight back into line.
I was their second chance.
The unexpected second child that came fifteen years after the first.
If I’d heard my mother tell me how taking maternity leave had stunted her career once, I’d heard it a thousand times. I owed her. I owed them. And I only had three choices.
Doctor. Lawyer. Engineer.
Kill. Me. Now.
But now.Nowthat I finally pulled out the pin from my back they’ve been winding me up with for nineteen years, I’m terrified. Sure, I could get a job at Tek’s shop while I figure outwhat the hell I actually wanna do with my life. Though the harsh reality is, I might never step foot back inside this house again.
Before leaving the kitchen, I pull my cell phone out of my pocket and flick through the settings to switch off the GPS tracker. Then, like the frantic rush had been for nothing, I walk slowly towards the front door.
The Uber is still waiting outside, but every step towards it feels like I’m made of lead.
This is what I wanted.
This is what I need…
Houses turn into industrial buildings which morph into the remnants of the town's hay day. Mary’s Crab Shack, The Crystal Cave, Clear Water Bed & Breakfast, Albertsons Liquor. Now, like most coastal towns in Northern Washington, Broadrock is only lively in the warmer months, and they’ve been gone for weeks.
It’s always eerie how quickly the weather changes here; like Mother Nature snaps her fingers and closes the curtains on us for another year. Some, like my parents, are lucky enough to escape back to Seattle for work, but for those of us born here, there’s a magnetic pull that doesn’t let us stray too far. And just like it has every time before, I can feel it tugging on my chest as the Uber driver pulls onto Interstate 5.
Iflop down onto the huge L shaped sofa that takes up half the living area, completely exhausted. Totally fucked—mentally. Definitely not physically. I could still punch this place down if I didn’t need it so much.
Sucking down a lungful of tar-filled smoke, I hold it in until my head starts to swim, then let it slowly billow out my nose.
I only ever smoke here, now; since I quit for Shawn. Because she worried too much about me getting cancer and would just die if she lost me too soon. What a strange irony.
The sun is almost set as a strong gust of wind howls through the cabin's open windows from the kitchen and loft then straight out above my head. It’s fucking cold in here, and it won’t be long before the temperature is hovering around freezing, but I need to air the place out.
Thankful that I had the presence of mind the last time I was here to take the linens home with me to wash, I stare up at my loft and the clean, fluffy, eighties red, white and black doonacover that everyone seemed to have. It’s not much, but it's cozy. Built into the A shaped rafters, the slanted roof is covered with buck hides, and besides a small chest of drawers and battery lantern, the only other thing up there, is an old 90s TV with a pile of DVDs and VHS tapes of the adult kind.
With another gust of wind, I push myself back upright and head through the open door to the porch that spans the front of the cabin. The entire thing is enclosed with wire mesh, and there are two built-in benches that run either side of the front door.
Lifting up the left side bench, I open a large aluminum tub and take out one carrot and one potato from their sacks before closing it again and returning the bench to its correct position.
In the kitchen I take out a chopping board and knife while contemplating whether or not it's too soon to use one of the steaks I brought with me. Deciding against it, I head for the walk-in dry storage pantry. It's mostly rice and beans which I need to eat as much of as I can stomach before I start losing my mind to the point where the only thing that can bring me back is red meat.
I dump a can of three bean mix and a sack of rice on the kitchen bench, then reality kicks in and I'm straight back out the front door because I can't use the stove without firewood.
I toss the cigarette butt into the tin can on the front steps then grab one of the beers from under the right bench and head straight for what was the original cabin. The definition of an eyesore, it stands—barely—in the back corner of the property. It still houses an old cot and ancient stove that came with it when I bought the place, but I only use it for storage because it's not good for anything else.
Taking the axe down from the wall, I close the rickety door and make my way to the tree stump at the back of the main cabin.
I crack my beer and take a drink as I stare into the woods.
I love how dense the trees are, and how, from this angle, you can't see the driveway so it feels like I'm the only person who's ever been here.
After taking another drink, I put my beer on the back windowsill and push aside the tarp curtain hanging beneath the wooden awning that juts off the cabin’s backwall. Filled with log rounds I chopped last time I was out here, I start throwing them towards the stump, but stop when a group of quails run past. I pause, expecting a fox to follow, then grip my axe tighter in case it's a coyote on their tails instead. My eyes scan the trees, yet the next minute provides nothing, so I pace around the tree stump in the hopes of finding a hawk circling. But again, there's nothing there.
Something doesn't feel right. The quails were running like they were being chased, but as I stand still and close my eyes, the only thing I can hear is the rustling of the trees as the wind blows through their branches.
I take a tentative look over my shoulder then place a log round on the stump. I don't want to be out here right now, but the wood won't fit in the stove when it's this size and I don't feel like going without heat for the night. So I grip the axe in both hands, raise it above my head, and—
The porch door opens then slams back into its latch.
