I can’t run from the past, and I’m not sure I can hide from it since everywhere I turn it’s there waiting for me already.  If I can manage to fight it, maybe the memories won’t rob me of rest.  Rest in peace.  Paxin does most of the battling, but there are still reminders that seethe through the openings the drugs don’t seal off.

I sit in my waterless tub overwhelmed by the whiteness of my bathroom.  It isn’t white though.  Spots of mildew decorate the curtain more than the original pattern.  A lingering stain reminds me that Elizabeth always took long baths, never showers.  Showers were for people who wanted to rush life without investing the time to appreciate it, but she – sweet Elizabeth, covering herself with a towel to retain her modesty like some Botticellian Venus – she would make me and the twins wait for dinner while she simmered in a long bubble bath.  She would push me out of the bathroom because we can’t have sex while our kids are awake in the house and lock the door so all I could do was hear her voice.  I miss her.  Downstairs the clock chimes.  It’s night already, I guess, because the windows are too bright for two in the morning.  Unless it’s raining.

I must have blanked out for a bit on the toilet.  It says on the side of the bottle to take medicine with food but I can’t build an appetite.  I can’t wait to move, not just from the pot, but from this house, from this existence, maybe even from this life.  How many capsules would it take for me to forget forever?

I cinch my pajama trunks and rub my sore cheeks.  I don’t want to sit, but unless I swallow something other than drugs and medication, my legs won’t allow me any alternatives.  I could sleep.  If only I could sleep.

I stumble down the hallway, half-slumped against the wall, bare feet dragging.  This is where we hung the pictures Natalie and Chloe drew in bright crayons.  Flowers.  Horses.  A line-up of smiley faces, one for each member of the family and another for Buzz the dog.  I feel the terrier lapping at the back of my calf – he must be hungry too.  I’ll give him whatever I can’t finish, which means he’ll be full tonight.  Except he’s not there.  God this house is so empty.  No, that’s not right.  God doesn’t live here anymore.

How long has it been since my last dose?  If I’m really zoning out, I should probably call the doctor and get a new prescription.  Without side effects, I hope.

Elizabeth knew I was going crazy.  She didn’t know how short a trip it was for me.  Sanity was a short pier and I took a long swim in the ocean beyond.  I remind myself to get down the stairs to the kitchen.  I really don’t want to go downstairs, though.

“So don’t use the stairs.  Jump.”

I hold my breath and count to ten.  Twenty.  Thirty.  Forty.  My head hurts.  At least the preacher is quiet for now.

The balcony railing is still broken since no one fixed it while I was gone.  Doctors.  Cops.  Lawyers.  Judges.  Cons.  That left plenty of time for somebody to come and fix up the house, but my family abandoned me much the same way I abandoned this structure.  And hope. 

What had the preacher said?  Worth remembering.  How ironic.  I couldn’t.

I reach the top of the dusty steps, taking slow, deliberate strides like a ninety-year-old.  Or those people in asylums.  They have white walls too.  Maybe this is my sanitorium.  Wheel me out to the yard for sunlight twice a day, feed me three times, allocate my euphoria, and buckle me snugly in my straitjacket so I can go to bed without hurting myself.  But I’d never hurt myself.  I’d never hurt anybody.

Elizabeth was running towards me but she wasn’t smiling that magical smile or singing her bath time songs.  Chloe was naked, a little cherub in the living room.  Natalie held her and rocked gently while both of them cried.  Tears from heaven, mixed with blood of sinners.  I was coming up the stairs to tell Elizabeth the demons were purged from the girls.  My wife came sprinted and almost knocked me down – it was only self-defense for me to regain my balance as her body broke the wooden banisters and plummeted to the hardwood floor below.  I didn’t have to check to know the last crack I heard wasn’t wood. 

Why must I do this to myself?  Take the whole bottle and chug it down.  “Get it over with,” I heard the preacher say.  “Quit dicking around with packing boxes and dust cloths.  Start a fire in the fireplace and offer your sacrifice.”

I shook my head violently, hoping the voice will fall out of my mouth like vomit.  Cleanse myself like I did my girls.  I drop to my knees, dry heaving over the snaggletoothed railing.  

Finally, I return to the bedroom, slip two capsules in my mouth, four more into my pajama pocket.  Renewed energy (or numbness) permits me to descend the staircase and reach the refrigerator.  Alcohol.  Batteries.  Margarine.  Moldy, unidentifiable things.  ****.  If I’m going to make it through another day, I’m going to have to go to the market.

I can’t drive. 

Looks like it’s up to the new neighbors that moved in next door during my “sabbatical.”  Last time I saw them, I said I was a teacher.  They seemed like friendly, albeit shy people.  I’ll sleep in and when I wake up, I’ll ask a favor.  That’s what neighbors are for.  Borrowing sugar.  Watching Buzz and picking up the mail while I’m on vacation.  Using a telephone.  If necessary, providing an alibi. 

Worse comes to worst, they can drop me off at the doctor’s office.

I swallow another Paxil for good measure and drop onto my couch, my last cognitive thought a plea for dreamless sleep.