The Brick House Across The Street

Their lights go out at 12 am, and back on at 7 am, every night, and every day.

Off.

On.

Off.

On.

I tuck myself under my white blanket and restart counting the bricks of 703 Foxcroft Blvd. My bedroom window stares into the modern house. Their kitchen looks clean and tidy today. It was almost like no one has lived there in weeks, or the woman, who I named Darlene, had become a neat freak in a matter of 30 days. I wonder if they knew I was coming home, but that’s just my narcissism kicking in. The silver sink is empty without a dish in sight. The freshly cleaned countertop spreads far beyond my eyes can see, with high-top black chairs stretching alongside it. I wonder if it was spaghetti for dinner tonight, or maybe tacos. They sometimes have tacos on Tuesdays.

My mom squeaks open the door and peeks her head in. She looks happy. I cannot imagine why. Every time I get back from rehab, she softly kisses my forehead before I shut my eyes for the night. It doesn’t matter how old I get, or how many times I go back. She likes it, and I like it too.

“Goodnight sweetie,” she says while caressing my blushed face.

“Goodnight Mom.”

“Hey, when you get a chance, water the sunflowers outside.”

“The ones at the front?”

“No, the ones at the side. The ones at the front should be fine.”

“Okay, mom. I will.”

“Sweet dreams Faith”

“Hey, mom? Is Dad coming to say goodnight?”

“I think he is already in bed dear.”

“Oh, okay. Tell him I say goodnight then.”

“I will.”

When the door shuts, I continue my count.

...6...7...8...9...

Dad would have screamed if he saw the crumbs of salt and vinegar chips fluttering through my bed, weaving in between my unwashed toes.

...13...14...15...16...

That’s probably why he went to bed. He saw me carrying the chip bag upstairs.

...20...21...22...23...

The sky looks like it's 11:49 pm. It's the same gloom that hovered in the air when we used to call our Ubers and head to the bar on a busy Friday night. Our house would shake through the neighbourhood as we screamed the Mamma Mia soundtrack while pounding back as many shots as we could handle. I never really knew how much I could handle. We’d fill bathroom stalls with smoke as nicotine bled into our lungs. Pulling, pulling, pulling and relentlessly searching for a head rush that never came.

…30...31...32...33...

We’d jump into boys' beds, only staying for an hour, until powdering our faces and carrying on to the next event. We’d gossip about them and shush one another for laughing too hard in public spaces. We’d jump on almost broken chairs as if they were trampolines. We’d snort lines in every bathroom of every house party, letting the dust jump our bones. We’d let the powder drip like gasoline into the backs of our throats, as we jumped chest to chest in sweaty dance circles with big smiles that accompanied our numb gums. Oh, how I’d love to jump into a pile of cocaine, just once again.

...50...51...52… 53…

12:03 pm. Their lights are still on. I softly raise my head from my freshly washed pillow. Darlene enters the kitchen. Her shoulders shrug all the way up to her temples. Her dainty red fingernails clench into white fists. Her mouth is moving too fast, so I slowly turn the window nob in circles and allow a puff of cold air into my room.

“...Are you kidding me right now Nicholas?...”

“…What do you want from me? What else could I possibly say? I can’t change what happened!

Their voices drift away from the kitchen as Nicholas follows Darlene like a lost puppy needing his toy. They come in and out of the frame, like a movie that forgot to upload footage from the other cameras. I wait for them to come back and resume counting.

...60...61...62...63…

My body jolts as a silver plate crosses the room and ricochets off the sink, splattering like fireworks into the ground. I can’t make out who threw it. The broken pieces of glass seep further and further into the tiles and deep into the roots of the house. Darlene approaches the sink to rinse her hand, with red droplets dripping into the freshly cleaned drain. Nicholas enters back into the movie, reaching for the wound.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me right now.”

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. How did that even happen?”

“The first one I threw splattered off the back wall and hit my hand”

“Hm. Karma.”

“Fuck you.”

They stand in silence. He gestures a paper towel in her direction, and she takes it.

“Look, babe, we’re both fucked up. That’s why we work. Can’t you see that?”

She lets him wrap the bandage slowly, without even breaking eye contact. Impressive. He should have made it tighter, like a rolled hundred-dollar bill. He puts his rugged hand on the back of her neck and pulls her in close. His lips intertwine with hers. Their bodies move closer and closer and closer. She lets him pick her up and thrust his hands down the rigid waistband of her tight jeans. Her shirt flies off out of the frame. Her legs wrap around him tightly. I could feel the warmth from my bedroom window. He carries her out of the frame, and the movie stops.

That’s the thing about pain. It’s fucking addictive. Like having a canker and still rolling your wet tongue over it. Or hearing your dad yell at you for wasting his money on a 3rd rehab trip but continuing to do lines in a club bathroom with a newly made friend who has malicious intent.

Damn. I lost count.

1...2...3...4…5...6...7...8...9...10...11…………………….

The sunlight wakes me up. I stretch my arms out wide and let out a childlike yawn. I swing my legs over to the side of the bed. My purse rests on my night table. I take out the bag and pour the little snowflakes onto the counter. My unrenewed library card chops the snow into lines that look like thin clouds. The last five-dollar bill in my wallet slices the powder into the back of my throat. My nose tickles, and I get up to go water the sunflowers and tell my mom good morning. I look in the mirror and practice how to properly smile with numb gums. That’s the thing about pain. It’s fucking addictive.