Andrea's Story

Author's Note: This story contains strong language and images. It might be advisable for the squeamish to skip this one.

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Andrea huffed, the cloud of her breath splaying against the paint-chipped door, her key sticking out of the lock above the handle. The damn thing was stuck in there, refusing to turn right or left. It was stuck, again.

She forced her palm against the door in frustration.

“Mom! Dad!” she called through the door. “The lock’s shot again. Let me in!” She pressed her ear against the gelid aluminum, Kelly flakes curling toward her as she listened for any signs of movement. Nothing. They must be out. Typical. It was probably a good thing. She had a note from her teacher requesting a meeting from them. As if that would happen. They rarely made it to the store to get groceries, never mind a parent-teacher conference for their teenage, smart-mouthed daughter.

“Hey!” she shouted. Nothing.

She banged her hand against the door. The key rattled. She tried it again. “Fucking finally,” she muttered to herself as the lock clicked back. Andrea wasn’t looking forward to having to replace another key that broke in the lock.

The chill of the landing did little to warm her as she kicked off her shoes and called out, “You assholes need to replace that damn lock.” Andrea closed and locked the door behind her, dumping her backpack on her shoes under the coatrack. She wasn’t really sure why she was talking to the house she was sure was empty. They could also just be upstairs, doing their usual thing. She rolled her eyes at the possibility before calling out, “And what the fuck is that smell?”

It was acrid, sifting through her nostrils, seeping through her sinuses and to the back of her tongue. Foul. Rotting.

She made her way into the kitchen to find the source of the smell. Probably the fridge door being left open, a common occurence. She had been telling her parents to get a new fridge for nearly a year because the door just wouldn’t stay shut and their food kept spoiling. She was tired of the meager allotment from the food bank going off before she had the chance to eat it. It’s not like they ever ate, but she needed nourishment of some type.

The door was closed, in fact giving resistance when she pulled it open to see if there was molding milk. For once, there was nothing fetid gone awry, and she pulled out the bottle of 7-Up, the refrigerator light flickering as it jostled slightly. She unscrewed the plastic lid which fell to the floor, ignored, before taking a swig from it and tucking it in the crook of her arm.

She carried the bottle with her into the living room and dropped it. The fizz of the two-liter bottle soaked the carpet and her socks, though given no notice at all by Andrea, whose sight was fixated on the display of her two parents propped against the couch on the floor, upright, stone-cold and lifeless.

There was no doubt they were dead, and had been for a while. Andrea stood, as ridged as the corpses, taking in the scene before her: the crusted vomit down their chins, the blue tint to their lips. There was nothing to determine. They had finally done it.

Andrea’s lungs ached as she realized she hadn’t taken a breath in minutes. She coughed as the world pushed forward, time reminding her of its existence.

“You goddamn twats,” she whispered. Her blood felt to be rushing toward her center, congealing into a heated ball whose energy radiated through her limbs to her fingers, her face, and back again. “You goddamn fucking twats!” she screamed at the two stiffs, at the tourniquets tied to their arms, the needle and spoon between them, the filth seeping from them, staining the floor.

They were the foul. They were the rot. They were the stench that reverberated through the house, and had been the filth daubing her life. And now they had finally had their hurrah together, their final laugh at the shit show that had been her life. They had finally left her.

Her stomach churned as their fetor reached her guts, her revulsion mixing with the acids. Her hand flung to her mouth, blocking her nose as she ran upstairs to the toilet. She spewed, expelling her anger, her hate, the vileness her parents had impressed upon her. The chunks of the sub-par school lunch rolled over her tongue as she spit, over and over, the saliva gathering in her cheeks.

Andrea stood, staring down at her own innards revealed in the black-streaked toilet, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

No more.

No more would her parents hold her back in life. No more would she be reliant on them to bring home food, money for rent and bills that were constantly being cut off. No more would she be their pawn as they marched her to the homes of friends and family while they sang their remorse and lamented how much support they needed during their false and conniving recovery.

No more.

Andrea went to the sink, staring at herself. This was their result. A fourteen-year-old scraggly girl with a stubborn chin, a quick tongue, and a few beatings behind her. She turned the tap on and tried to splash water on her face. It was frigid, burning at her skin. No heating. Again.

She pivoted around the corner of the bathroom and into her room, swooping down to grab random articles of clothing that she stuffed into her army satchel her grandfather had passed down to her. Her options were clear to her. From here she would be taken in by Social Services and then go to a foster home.

“No,” she said to herself, to the death in the house.

She scanned her room, black stripes of clothing streaking the floor, scribbled-on posters decorating the white walls, bed unmade with a crusted bowl of oatmeal next to it.

“Bye,” she whispered.

Andrea marched downstairs, her warmest boots clunking together over her shoulders by their laces tied together, the bag banging against the backs of her knees. The odor reached toward her, threatening to offend her senses again. There was nothing left for her, not here. The stairs led her back to the landing. She rummaged in her coat pocket for her key-ring as her feet shuffled into her shoes. Glancing back toward the living room, she hung the keys on the hook, jiggled the door open, and slammed it closed.

“Bye.”