Fuck, I really didn't want to be here.
I hate this town. I hate these people. I hate this trailer. I step out of the rental car, a stupidly expensive Lexus something-or-other that still somehow came with a CD player and slam the door harder than necessary. I've been listening to our first album the entire drive from the airport like some self-destructive asshole. Thirty straight minutes of hearing my own voice echo through rural Kansas. I light another cigarette before the last one's even fully dead. The rental place already charged me some ridiculous cleaning fee upfront because I told them I'd be smoking in it. Didn't care. Still don't. The second I look up at the trailer, my stomach twists.
Seven years.
Seven fucking years and it somehow looks smaller than I remember. Smaller and meaner. The faded aluminum siding is stained yellow in places. One of the front steps dips under my weight when I walk up. The screen door hangs crooked enough that it barely looks attached. Then the smell hits me. Ozzy fucking Osbourne.
Even standing outside, the ammonia stench is strong enough to burn my nose. Something sour I don't even want to identify. I've smoked for years and even I can't stomach this shit. I stare at the front door for a second too long. I don't know if I can actually do this. The spare key's still under the mat. Of course it is. I miss the lock completely on the first try. The second jams. On the third, I have to lift the handle, jiggle the lock, then throw my shoulder into the swollen wood hard enough to force it open. The smell gets worse instantly.
"Oh, fuck no."
I stumble back onto the porch, coughing into my sleeve while my eyes water. Nobody should've been living like this. Let alone raising kids in it.
Not kids. Failures.
Her voice slips into my head so naturally it almost feels real. Another mouth to feed, Ashton. That's all you ever were.
"Yeah," I mutter to nobody. "Thanks, Mom." I yank my shirt over my nose and force myself back inside.
The trailer feels hot and stale, like it's been sealed shut for years instead of days. I move fast, opening windows without really looking at anything. Living room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Every window shrieks when I force it up. I avoid the dining area completely. I can still see it without looking anyway. Milk crates stacked like walls. Sheets thumbtacked over cabinets to block the light. Her cigarettes floating in the dark while some shitty daytime TV played too loud in the background. I move down the narrow hallway toward my old room. God. This place is tiny.
My bedroom door still sticks near the bottom. Inside, the room looks like somebody vacuum-sealed the year 2000 and left it here to rot. Band posters cover every inch of wall space. Blink-182. Korn. Papa Roach. Disturbed. Limp Bizkit. A warped Eminem poster curling at the corners above the bed. Burn marks on the carpet. CD cases stacked beside an ancient stereo system. Black nail polish dried shut on the dresser beside a melted candle and a pile of chains I used to think made me look dangerous. There's still a cracked mirror leaned against the wall where I used to practice interviews before the band ever got signed. Like I actually knew any of this would happen. I shove the window open and collapse onto the lumpy mattress hard enough to knock dust into the air. The springs groan under me.
Should've paid somebody to clean this place out. Better yet, should've paid somebody to burn it down.
My eyes sting, but I don't let myself cry. Pussy-ass bitch. Don't start that shit now.
I stare at the overflowing trash can beside the desk. And of course there are condoms in it. Used ones.
I laugh once under my breath, dry and humorless. "That's disgusting."
My gaze drifts around the room again. At the posters. The ashtray. The stained carpet. The version of me fossilized inside all of it. I swallow hard. I was disgusting too.
Seeing as I'm apparently doing this shit myself, I might as well start in my room. The one holding all my teenage trauma and apparently biological warfare inside that trash can. I leave the bedroom and head for the kitchen. Trash bags were always under the sink growing up. Right beside the mousetraps and the expired ramen. Why the fuck didn't I hire somebody to do this?
I don't even have cleaning supplies. My boots stick to the linoleum as I walk. Every step peels up with a wet sound that makes my skin crawl. The sink's overflowing with dishes covered in black slime and fuzzy gray mold. Something moves near the drain.
Absolutely not.
"Korn on Christmas." I yank open the cabinet beneath the sink and immediately regret every decision I've ever made. A whole roach civilization explodes out at me. I jerk backward so fast I slam into the counter, and yeah, maybe I scream a little. Maybe it's not my finest moment. "Fuck!"
One lands on my boot and I smack it off hard enough to nearly lose my balance. I slap myself across the face afterward. Not hard-hard. Just enough to knock the panic loose. Pussy-ass bitch.
I crouch back down carefully this time and grab the only two trash bags left under the sink. Figures. God, this place is disgusting.
I stand there for a second with my hands tangled in my hair, tugging hard enough at the roots to sting. It's getting too long again. Sage is gonna lose their mind when I get back. Actually, no. "Lose their mind" implies there was ever a stable mental state to begin with. I can already hear them bitching at me from three states away. Ashton James Rhodes, if you show up looking like a divorced substitute teacher, I will kill you myself.
I snort despite myself and head back toward my room, mentally preparing for death by emotionally unstable keyboardist. Not hairdresser, never call Sage a hairdresser unless I want to get stabbed with scissors. They're Sage Hart. Keyboardist and lyricist for Ashes & Anthems. One of my best friends. Also clinically insane with bleach and layering techniques.
Back in my room, I force myself to start. I tie off the trash bag and dump the entire trash can into it without looking too closely. Condoms. Empty cigarette packs. Crumpled papers. Ancient fast-food wrappers. A dead lighter. The room smells like stale smoke and dust baked into old fabric. I scrape melted candle wax off the plywood dresser with my thumbnail, black polish chipped to hell around the edges. The wax comes up in brittle flakes. Some of the cheap black paint peels off with it. I stare at the exposed plywood underneath for a second too long. Like underneath all the bullshit, the real version was always there waiting to show through eventually.
I open the dresser drawer expecting more garbage and somehow still get disappointed. A couple pairs of ratty tighty-whities. A dried-up stick of deodorant. A box of condoms with two left in it like teenage Ashton thought he was some kind of rockstar already. Buried underneath all of it, I find an old sandwich bag full of weed. I stare at it for a second. "No fucking way."
I pick it up and laugh under my breath. The bag crackles in my hand, dry and ancient. Dirt weed. Absolute ditch garbage. Probably half stems. I should smoke this shit. Just for nostalgia. Maybe it'll distract me from the fact I'm standing inside the rotting corpse of my childhood. I know I've got better stuff in the car. Way better. But this? This feels historically accurate. Like if depression had a scent profile.
I dump the weed out onto the dresser and immediately remember I have nothing to smoke it out of. Right. Teenage me probably used soda cans and whatever diseases came attached to them. I glance toward the hallway. I do have a bowl in the car. Which means walking back through the living room. Past the dining area. Past her space. My shoulders tense instantly. Yeah. No. Absolutely not.
Maybe. I sigh loud enough to echo through the trailer. "Jesus Christ, Ash. Grow a pair."
I'm finally forcing myself up off the mattress when I hear it.
Crash.
Twist.
Bang.
The front door.
I freeze. Not many people knew how to open that door without breaking the damn thing. For one insane second, my brain immediately goes to one of Mom's old junkie friends showing up to rob the place now that she's dead. Honestly? Wouldn't even crack the top ten worst things to happen in this trailer. I stand slowly, every muscle tight. Okay. Relax. I could probably take a methhead. Probably. Unless they stab me with a dirty needle first. Fantastic. Imagine surviving years of fame, drugs, groupies, and tour buses only to get taken out by Hepatitis Debbie in rural Kansas.
BREAKING NEWS: Ashes & Anthems frontman found dead beside trailer park raccoon.
That's how people would find out where I'm from. I'm halfway down the hall before I realize I'm looking around for a weapon like this is some low-budget horror movie. My eyes land on a baseball bat shoved in the closet beside the bathroom. I grab it automatically. Then freeze. Oh. Adam's bat.
My thumb runs over the cracked black tape wrapped around the handle. Louisville Slugger. One of his old game bats. Probably stolen from the school after graduation like he used to joke about doing.
The front door groans open wider behind me. Then I see her. Everything inside me stops. Not metaphorically. Actually stops. Like my brain forgets how to send signals to the rest of my body.
Lauren.