Sunday December 29th 2024 10:39 am - Danny's Kitchen Table

Danny and I woke up early and went for a 2 mile run, and then cleaned his whole house. It wasn't all that dirty, but there's something about a fresh start that feels so good. He's been all alone in here. Christmas decorations line his walls and shelves, but with no human in sight to provide some holiday cheer and essence, all those decorations just feel odd, lifeless, and more like stage props for a movie set. I feel that same sentiment a lot in his house. Everything looks nice...but nothing feels nice.

Maybe it's the way Danny and I grew up. We didn't have nice things like that. Our ornaments were old class projects where we used finger paints to make little Christmas trees, or stretched apart cotton balls to create snow. 4 brothers and 1 sister meant that everything was mismatched, no color schemes or themes. Just kids being kids. I think that's what makes a house a home. Our existence, and the evidence of it, is what gives houses a life of their own. Leftover sticky spaghetti sauce speckled on the side of your fridge, scratches on the dining room table, boogers on the bathroom wall, juice stains on the carpet. Lived in, and worn out.

Danny's house feels more like a sterilized hospital room. Everything is the same muted color. All the decor is too clean and matches too perfectly and the lights are too bright. My footsteps are slow and precarious as if I'm in an endangered forest, wary of stumbling upon a rare creature and squashing it into extinction. You don't live in places like this, you just carefully place trinkets and body parts in designated places and try to make no sudden movements.”

When I first arrived, I laid down the suitcases I got on sale (2 for the price of 1) as gently as possible. There was an uncomfortable aura afloat that made you feel like you couldn’t sit down anywhere without getting permission first. If the word "pedantic" could suddenly become pieces of furniture then that would be what was surrounding us...and reckless limbs like mine aren't made for stiff chairs like that.

Danny knows this. But he doesn't judge me.

Even though he is a year younger than me, he chooses to guide me in this moment. He shows me how things work in a world like this. A 26 year old man in his little nook of captivity. Decorative books on the table, non-toxic products by the sink, organic air fried gluten free chicken nuggets in the freezer.

He tells me not to put their wooden spoons in the dishwasher. He reminds me that we didn't have a dishwasher growing up so that must be why I don't know what goes in or stays out. He tends to remember everything I forget about our childhood, and he's right. I didn't know wooden spoons can't get wet, or they can get wet just not in the dishwasher. I'll do better next time.

I can't help but see the imaginary rules he's been confined to once again. But I don't judge him. It's not my job to judge or change him, it's my job to accept him for who he is. 

Over the years, this gesture of acceptance has made our relationship almost nonexistent at times, but he's still my brother. No longer the little boy from the culd-e-sac we'd go ride our bikes in while mom and dad were screaming at each other in the house. Yes, still my brother, but now a man and a father of his own who has stacks of thick pointless books, endless bottles and tinctures of cleanliness, and delicious food that you can only find at grocery stores with membership fees.

I think I'm jealous of him in some ways. He made it out. He did it. He found love and created a family. I am his big sister yet I have no idea what I'm doing with my life. And the books on his table make him look important, and the cleaning products don't sting your nose, and the organic chicken doesn't make our stomachs turn. 

But other things do.

—----

9:27pm

He is starting to open up more about what has been done to him. Abhorrent and purposeful inflictions of pain. As I listen and sip the coffee he made for me from a machine that definitely costs more than my discount suitcases...I begin to see this illusive veil of "perfection" finally slip away. All of the frilly decorations, luxe products, and delicate antiques start to reveal a rotten and decaying core.

There is oat milk and powdered cinnamon in our teeth, knitted blankets keeping us warm on his couch along with the electric fireplace, and somewhere between his words and my listening, I realize...my brother is who he always has been. He never changed, he was kidnapped, maybe even murdered.

My life has made me feel dead too.

So here we are now, like two little ghost children, hiding under the covers with a flashlight, swapping stories of the horrors we’ve endured. We precariously peek out and look around his home like it's a museum. Artifacts, documents, and relics are all that is left to tell the story of what has happened here. It’s haunting and somber and awful.

But his daughter will be visiting soon, so we need to be adults and go to the grocery store to prepare. And we are hungry too...maybe we'll buy a bag of that organic chicken.