A body Full Of Ghosts

I have this dream of going back to that house and stepping inside, touching the walls all the way to the back room. Opening that door and finding it empty. I want to lay where the bed was; I still know exactly where it was. I’ll trace the marks where the bedpost slammed into the wall. Which moments created these? Good or bad? Does the distinction between the two really matter anymore? I’ll step into the shower, run the water over my body. Too hot, burn away a layer of me and leave it in the drain. I want to walk away and into the garage. 

See the concrete. See if my blood is still stained on the wall or the ground in the left hand corner. I wonder if they covered it before selling. I want to sit where my blood was, I want to feel the part of me left in that building. I want to walk away. Travel into the kitchen, disturbing nothing as I go. I want to sit on the counter and take in where the holes in the wall used to be. The corner cabinet where he slammed my head into the wood. The same cabinet he hid his cigarettes in. I want to see if I can still hear B laugh in the corner of that room. Or if he’s a ghost too. I wonder if they were able to rid my screams from that room, or if they still echo every night. Banshee wails echoing off the walls. I want to jump down, the way I used to. Counters too high. And wander into the backyard. 

Is my blood still there too? Blood is so hard to wash off of concrete--is it stained forever red? There’s a scar on the inside of my mouth; one time he punched me and I bit down on my cheek so hard it almost pierced through. Maybe the scar is fake, another ghost. 

I want to sit with my blood again. Close my eyes and see if I can hear the laughter among the screams. This is where I found out about the other girl, the one I stayed through. This is where I lied to my mother. This is where she told me, “He reminds me of your dad.” 

This is where he pulled my hair until I screamed so loud the dogs barked next door. Are they barking again? Can they sense me? Are they even the same dogs? This is where he dragged me back into the house as I cried. I’ll open my eyes, will he be there? Or is it just the dead grass mimicking his footsteps? 

I’ll save the living room for last. I’ll sit by the window and stare down the hallway. We’ll leave the memorial room alone I think, and the other. Turn away and touch the carpet. Is his cologne real? The flashes will come. I’ll let them. I’ll hear the stomping, the slamming. I’ll hear my yelling and screaming, the fights echoing from the room down the hall. I’ll pretend to be his father, sitting in this spot pretending he doesn’t hear me. I’ll be him this time, watching as I run towards the front door. As his son grabs me from behind and throws me against the oakwood floors. I’ll be him, watching. Turning the TV up as I fight against his son, begging him to let me go. I’ll be him as his son slips and I pull open the door. Him as I sprint to my car, get in and drive away. 

I’ll be him when I come back, not even looking up as I walk back into his house and back up to his son. I’ll be him, not hearing the screams that night. 

I’ll open my eyes and wonder. Do I haunt his dreams? Does he hear me? See me? Is that why he messaged me all those years after? Was it his form of an apology? I’ll stand up and look around. I’ll let go, leave those parts of me there. Leave the blood--it’s not mine anymore.

I’ll leave the ghosts in the walls. I’ll let them live there alone. I’ll leave the rest there too. I’ll take the lessons and the pain with me. 

I’ll walk out the door. Lock it. This time, I’m not coming back. I’ll turn around when I go to get in the car and I’ll see him in the window, and I’ll wave goodbye. And then I’ll leave. Maybe it’s him returning for the same closure and a different reason. Or perhaps it’s another ghost. Either way, that topaz gaze will stay in those walls. 

I’ll look back sometimes, but looking back-it’s not the same as returning.

Breanna Reyes is a twenty-three year old, indigenous author born and raised in sunny central California. Reyes is a poet and a story teller shifting focus between fantasy/sci-TI and real depictions of trauma often told through prose. They live with their three cats and one very rambunctious rabbit as well as their Fiancé in Lodi, CA.