Chapter Seven:
#Jake
I left the cemetery, not knowing where to go. It was as if my body had left while my soul remained there, begging Steve and hoping for forgiveness. I was lost in the city streets, driving through every road until I stopped at my old house, the one I had left three years ago. It remained exactly as it was, nothing changed.
I looked closely at its red door, whose color had begun to fade, and its ancient wooden walls that surely needed repainting. I got out of the car and stood staring at the house as if seeing it for the first time. I realized I couldn't get in. I muttered to myself, "The house key... it's in the black bag I left at the hotel." Besides, there was no one waiting for me in this house; even if I knocked a thousand times, no one would be there to open it.
Time took me back to the day I first met Steve. It was right here on this street. I was 15, going out to look for someone to sell me some cheap drugs. I found him sitting under a tree. I immediately knew he wasn't from here, nor did his appearance suggest he was a tourist. His clothes were old—a black shirt faded white from wear, blue jeans, and torn sneakers—and his face had a few bruises. He was looking left and right, as if afraid of being caught.
I went up to him and said, "Hi, I'm Jake, and who are you?" I felt his nervousness and tension the moment I spoke to him; even if he tried to hide it, it was clear. He said, "My name is Steve. I came to this town from New York." Hmm, a lot of tourists come from New York, but he didn't look like one at all. "Right, Steve. Where are you staying now? In a hotel?"
He started drawing a line in the dirt with a wooden stick, as if searching for the solution to a difficult math equation. He didn't know how to answer me. Then he said, "I don't have a place to stay."
I told him with complete honesty, "Are you homeless?" At that, he leaped up vigorously and stood in front of me with courage, despite his condition, shouting, "I am not homeless, do you understand?" His pride was greater than his skinny body, and the sparkle in his eyes was different.
I said to him in a calm tone, "Alright, Steve. Do you want to live with me in my house?" I saw shock etched on his face, and his body, which had been tense moments before, now relaxed. He asked me, questioning, "What did you say? You want me to live with you?"
I replied, "Yes, I live alone. A little company wouldn't hurt. I just hope you don't cause trouble, Steve."
His body tensed up again, as if I had shattered his pride with that sentence. He said, "I don't cause trouble. Don't think I'm a bad person just because I'm on the street. You don't know me, yet you offer me a place to stay, and I don't know you either, and perhaps you are the one who will cause trouble."
He truly shocked me with what he said. I was offering him a place to stay, and yet he dared to say this to me. I placed my hand on his shoulder and said, "I like your audacity, Steve. I think you're going to be my friend." He kept staring, disbelieving what he was hearing, even though I myself could hardly believe what I was saying.
The memory faded, and I returned to the present, standing before the faded red door. I touched its cold surface and the walls that themselves now refused to recognize me. I couldn't bear standing outside any longer. I started moving around the perimeter of the house like a madman, looking for any broken window, or any secret entrance I knew in the past. I remembered telling Steve about some weaknesses in this old house; we used to laugh about it, saying the house needed "psychological renovation" more than physical repair.
I reached the back kitchen window; it was always troublesome; its lock was worn out and didn't close properly. I knelt in the long grass and started trying to lift it gently. A loud, annoying screeching sound cut through the quiet of the deserted street.
"Stop!" I whispered to myself, gritting my teeth. "One of the neighbors might hear me. I don't need trouble now."
But desperation was stronger than caution. There was nowhere else to go. I needed this place now; I needed to breathe in Steve's scent, even if it was a passing memory.
I pushed the window harder, and suddenly, it gave way and opened about two inches wide. I climbed in slowly and carefully, squeezing my large body into the narrow opening, and finally, I dropped onto the dusty wooden kitchen floor.
The house was exactly as I had left it. Dust covered everything in a thick layer, but the furniture was in place.
The living room: The old leather couch we used to share while watching movies, and next to it, the table that still bore the imprint of the last coffee cup.
The scent: There was a mix of dust, old wood, and a very faint, barely discernible perfume, perhaps Steve's scent clinging to the old fabrics.
I stood in the middle of the living room, my hands trembling. I couldn't handle this rush of memories attacking my senses all at once. Every corner screamed his name, every silence in the room echoed his laughter.
I collapsed onto the couch, covering my face with my hands, and began to tremble. I wasn't looking for forgiveness from Steve at the cemetery... I was looking for forgiveness from myself now.
I left the house with difficulty after inhaling a ton of dust, and I felt my lungs begging for mercy now. I put my hand on the car handle, then I glimpsed her there, across the street. She was wearing a white shirt and a red skirt, and her hair was tied up in a bun. She was standing and staring at me. Then she came running to hug me tightly. She was crying and perhaps saying some words I couldn't understand.
I held her by the shoulders and gently pulled her away, saying, "Stella, calm down." She began wiping her tears with the palms of her hands like a small child and said, "Jake, is that really you? Have you finally come, or am I dreaming?" Yes, she thought she was dreaming, for Jake was like a ghost now, and it was hard to believe he was back. I told her, "Yes, Stella, I've returned." She hugged me again and said, "I missed you so much, Jake. You don't know how these years passed without you. I always came to your doorstep, waiting for you to come, but you never did, Jake."
I couldn't bear the reproach from her. Every word reminded me of my unforgivable mistake. I gently pulled her away for the second time and said, "I have to go now, Stella. I'm happy to have seen you and that you're well."
She replied, trying to stop me from leaving, "Where are you going, Jake? Are you leaving town again?" I answered, trying to reassure her, "No, I won't. I'm just going to the hotel." Then she noticed my red, puffy eyes and my clothes, which were covered in dust, and she asked me, "What's wrong, Jake? Are you okay? Did you hear what happened to Steve?" I answered, wanting to escape going over this subject again, "Goodbye, Stella. I have to go now."
I got into my car and left her, her eyes pleading for me to stay, but I couldn't. I had to escape for a bit, or the sorrow would swallow me whole.