Beach House.

The beach house. It was a capsule in time, and there was a profound sense of pride in preserving it while living there. It had belonged to an old sailor, and the smell of his old tobacco pipes lingered in each room. The home had come furnished, donning lavish 1970s-era furniture, dishes, literature, and decor. The old sailor's energy could be sensed daily while sitting on his sofa, resting below the driftwood chandelier, overlooking the water. It was filled with light, air... an oasis, a haven.

But then, there was the basement. It was encompassed with both literal and figurative darkness. Making your way down the steep staircase, covered in a dated, musty smelling green carpet, there wasn't much to see. In one corner, a cobweb-filled fireplace. Often, I found myself sitting on the brick hearth, thumbing through the pages of the old novels left behind. In the other corner, seemingly misplaced saloon doors, leading to a cement-walled attempt at a laundry room, illuminated by nothing but an old light bulb with a chain pull. Hours upon hours were spent trying to wash the smell of hatred and regret out of each piece of cloth.

The brain has a beautiful, tragic way of saving you from yourself sometimes. The visions that come to me from down there are both foggy, like watching them through a mist, yet so tangible I can reach out and touch them. Flashes, pieces, sensations...

The weight of the laundry basket on a right hip; the chipped wood railing beneath a left hand. Bleach and mildew create a nauseating perfume in the air. Dark green carpet ripples over a creaking staircase beneath my feet. A heavy crack to the skull. A lifeless body careening step by step down to the depths below. Face smashed into the carpet-covered cement. Thunder is booming loudly, echoing all around. An awareness shift: thunder quickly understood as footsteps, stumbling heavily down the staircase. Body weighing a thousand pounds, with a keen awareness of being trapped in one's own flesh. The thunder has caught up, taking in fistfuls of hair. Dragging, pulling. Saloon doors swing open. White washing machine. A wind-up, a swing. Again, again, again. A ball to a bat: a head to cold, hard steel. Red rivers running down the temples and cheek. Darkness.

But sun will rise. I will gently rinse blood off my bruised and swollen, gingerly scrub it out of the carpet. Cardboard boxes will be packed. Room by room, I pull the doors shut. I walk out of the house into the light, away and into freedom. The sun is bright, the sun warm. Beach house in the rear view, and the future through the windshield.

The trauma of the past will remain stored in the walls of that house, fittingly becoming a part of the capsule in time that drew me in from the beginning. The ghosts of the old sailor and the memories will remain dead within its shell for eternity, unable to haunt me anymore.

And I'm free.