As I drive to where it is, my eyes blurring with tears only allowing me to see blurry blobs of canary yellow lights and ruby red stop signs – the idea of turning the car around, completely forgetting about it all – pops up in my mind. In the end, I don’t listen to its persuasive taunts. We both knew that I couldn’t forget about that house. I couldn’t turn back. I had been secretly praying every night that one day I could return back and take it home with me. So I do. I open the door of my childhood home.
Year 3. It all seems like a blur of vibrant colours, children giggling and sugary screams. Girls and boys chasing each other in playgrounds, the sounds as warm as a cup of tea on a winter’s day, as teachers talked and shared conversations over cups of coffee. I remember standing in the middle of the crowd, feeling heavy, huge bags bump into me as I tried to figure out my way around. I was in a class of 31 bustling people, yet I felt like I was in a fog all alone. But I got through it. On the last day of school, I remember saying bye to all of my new friends, coming back home, throwing my bag on the couch and turning on the TV. All those memories play statically in my head as I stare at the TV, which now has a layer of dust on it, and the couch, which is now a dirty yellow colour – a contrast to the deep navy blue it was before.
Year 6- I would invite my friends over to my house and give them a tour of my room. Back then it looked rather small, packed with furniture and neon pink posters. The joy of being able to get a new poster of my favourite singer and sticking it to the wall hits me again as I stare at the bare walls which now look dull and drained of colour, of joy. A cabinet sits in front of a wall, blending into the background almost. Its wood is chipped, the baby blue paint flaking, its drawers rattling nervously as the wind howls through open windows. If I close my eyes, I can almost see my group of friends sitting on the floor (which used to be furnished with a circular rug but is now cold and grimy.) In the corner of this very room, everything changed. It’s why I drove 5 hours to this haunted place which still reeks of happy, joyful memories and bears no resemblance to the gloomy dark energy which I couldn’t escape from months ago.
Year 10. That’s when it all changed. A few things happened that stole the light from inside my youthful heart; stole the joy and replaced it with something darker, uglier and older. Mom used to say I looked 10 years older as I would stare into the mirror; she pointed out my black under eyes and my matted hair. In classrooms, I would be like a ghost, merely passing through rooms, barely keeping up with my studies. My room, which once used to be a place of laughter, became haunted. Some nights, I would lay awake, wrapped in my blankets, as I recalled the happy memories in hope that one of them could break through the thin surface of the bubble I lived in and help me out. In the corner of that very room, I promised myself that one day I would be able to drag myself out of the cold, merciless currents of the waters and be something that I would be proud of. In the corner of this very room, I left my happiness, hoping that one day I could come and pick it up from the ground and continue to nourish it.
And so here I stand. I take off my backpack, feeling its massive weight coming off my shoulder, and hear my shirt shift on my shoulder as a gentle breeze blows through my hair, congratulating me on my journey. The zip opens, interrupting the crisp silence in the room, and I let my hand search in my bag in search of my photo album. Only when my hands rub against the smooth film do I take the book out and flip through the pages till I reach the collection labelled ‘2018’. Making myself comfy on the ground, I don’t even seem to realise the cold floor stinging my bare legs. And there, right where I would sit thinking of a future where everything would be good again, I scanned the images of myself in the photos, laughing and looking happy. My eyes were glowing back at me, almost smiling as I flipped from photos of birthday parties where I held balloons to graduation parties where I wore navy blue robes and held a certificate in my hand, as tears ran down my cheeks. I closed my eyes as I imagined 14 year old me sitting on the floor beside me, smiling as she looked through the album too. I hoped she would be proud.
I left that house with a few new things; a couple of posters, books and jewellery. But the most valuable thing that I drove back home with, under that night’s clear sky, was the answer which I had wished 4 years ago I would eventually find: it did all get better.
