The house is empty, and I'm knee deep in vomit.


My mother was the sickness. She spread her disease into every room of the house. The end drew closer.

(we ran. and there was no escape.)


She was cruel from the beginning

The irritation started three weeks ago. It was all my mothers doing, her wicked ways and intentions caused it all. Three weeks ago my mom began irritating the exposed bowls of our precious home. She pulled and tore at the innards of the house, stealing its substance. She ignored its nightly cries of dying.

The first day began with her disemboweling the down stairs closet. But that was only the beginning, from there she moved into the high shelves of the garage, she even threatened the life of our sad weathered shed hidden in the back yard.

We soon found her mumbling her way in and out of our rooms, looking hungry. We would find her carrying handfuls of things into the office, that was starting to look more like a crawl space for small animals (then a place where humans were meant to go).

I, my father, and my brother watched in a silent, but titillating fear for three days before my father mustered up the courage to ask from around his spoon full of mashed potato's.

"So, we having a garage sale or something?"

My brother and I curled in our seats to match our mother's smile.

Six days later it became a battle of things we loved, hated, wanted, kinda liked, sorta liked, and didn't give a damn about.

My brother and I found ourselves forced for hours to abide to the rules of the boxes.

"You can't leave until you fill this box."

"Not until that box is filled!"

"Did you fill your box yet?"

Empty boxes stole from us, half empty boxes stole from us. Brown stole from us. We covered them in angry black sharpie ink. swearing.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it!"

The ink bleeds though.


I wither against my memories, spitting out all the bad tastes.

"Stop making all that noise!" My brother snaps, hidden behind his base ball cap with a "1.00 $" tag on it.

My ankles crack, and I pull Bunny-bunny into my arms. The disease has claimed him, the blackness… it has taken from us all.


My brother and I were mostly wicked at night. Sneaking out of our rooms into the ever more infamous office to pick and pull from the boxes things we had dreamt about. The dead of night would find us cuddling dusty stuffed dogs, and sliding articles of clothing along the floor.

"I'm so sorry." I whispered to bunny-bunny. "Please forgive me." My bed soon became inappropriately overthrown with stuffed animals (that had not seen the light of day in years), as did my brothers.

Our mother eventually caught on, and chided us mercilessly.

"You don't even touch this stuff anymore!" She shouts, once again removing my brothers' old running shoes from his closet.

"That's not the point!" a shoelace rips between them. "They mean something to me!"

"Fine!" the shoes are thrown back in my brother's face, and he stands stock until our mother leaves.

He buries his face in the soles, dirtying himself.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I laugh. "Are you crying?"

I dodge the shoes.


Eventually, the house could take no more. Its insides caused it too much pain, and we were thrust out!

Now the sun knows me, and there is no escape.

We are having a yard sale.

My life is on sale.