Moving things takes a while: triage, load, mentally arrange into new time and new space–like Tetris, but with gravity–rinse, repeat. All the while, anger fuels a straight back, despite the monotony of it all, coupled with the self-persecution. Pretend that your belongings can weigh you down, keep you tethered to those whom you shared them with. A futile exercise, really, but what is the passage of time but something to eventually bow down to, while committing to memory those few moments that shone through the blackness.
Not, of course, this one. Not the blackest, but certainly the loudest in a long while. Coming home to a changed house has that tendency to bring out the worst in me, it seems, and midnight did not stop this one from happening. No catharsis, unfortunately, and no one was vindicated in any way, not even after others stepped in with their sage advice, a ruling of declaration of persona non grata for accepting a bribe for silence without even knowing that such was the consideration.
I talked about proximate cause in class, the day before effect came; what were words, apparently, had coalesced into action, declaration: “You do not belong here anymore.”
“I don’t think I ever did,” I said in reply, but backs were already turned, memories turned into haze through which everyone adopted a happy tabula rasa. Nothing happened, we do not remember that anything happened, so hi there, what seems to be the problem?
Walk away. Just walk away. And don’t you dare look back.