Familiarity

Familiarity

by Sadie Hutchings

illustration by Sadie Hutchings

The night wind batters against the window; the bubbled, spider-webbed glass too thin and cracked to keep out the surges of heat that accompany each wave of summer humidity. I am walking silently across well-worn floorboards edged with the familiar walls of this house. How often did we sit here together last winter? How often did we wedge ourselves under that windowpane, as we mixed the air from our lungs with the frosty winds that snuck their way in? Sitting there long enough for the cold to numb us. We never did call a repairman to come and fix that window. Maybe you’ve always secretly liked the idea of disrepair.

I run my hand along the cedar credenza my grandfather gifted us. My fingers come away layered in dust. When was the last time we invited him to come to stay with us? I always mean to call, but each time I reach for the phone, you draw me into you and I forget all about grandfathers and the world outside our house. This house. You’ve always had that effect on me—the ability to silence my mind. It’s why I love you. It’s why I’m leaving you.

Following the glare of moonlight streaming in from the window, I make my way down the narrow stairs. The

railings are made from heavy, twisted wood and each post casts a shadow that cuts through the path of pale light. Am I really ready to do this? With each step I take, the remaining length of the staircase seems to lengthen, to bend, to twist. Am I ready to leave you, to leave this house? It’s not too late to turn around and join you back in bed. Back in slumber. In numbness. Ahead of me, the staircase slithers, looping back and forth and creating a labyrinth of steps and banister. You were so angry last time. No, not angry, you assured me—worried. I am gripping the railing with both hands; my knuckles are chalk-white, liable to snap into thousands of pieces. It would be easier to stay. Easier. Expected. My feet continue to move. I put one foot in front of the other. One foot in front of—with you, I know who I am. I should stay. I can’t stay. My mind swirls, almost as if competing with the acrobatics of the stairs. My body continues moving forward, doing what my mind cannot, and sticks to the decision to leave.

The staircase opens into the foyer of the house and I go to the coat closet where I’ve hidden a suitcase of my things. In taking out the scuffed case, my hand brushes against the array of coats that hang stiffly on their hangers. It’ll be a decent amount of time before they’ll get any wear—before the summer’s heat wave simmers into the cool crispness of autumn. I close the closet door.

And then there you are, as if the sound of the door latching into its frame was loud enough to wake you. How is it that you never look tired? Free of the fatigue that always clouds mine, your eyes are alert. They take in the suitcase I’m holding in my left hand, the lateness of the hour, and the fact that I am fully dressed. “What’s going on,” your voice filling the palpable silence. “Are you okay?”

I tighten my grip on the bag. “I have to go,” my voice

comes out quiet and small. “I can’t—I can’t stay here anymore. We aren’t good for each other.” You shake your head as you move closer, towering over me. I swear that I was the taller one when we first met. How is it that now you dwarf me?

“This isn’t the first time we’ve gone through this—you always end up wanting to stay. There’s a reason for that.” Your voice is soothing and you reach out to place a hand on my shoulder. “Look, let’s just go back upstairs.” As you continue to speak, you appear to grow even taller. I look to my feet and I’m sinking in quicksand, your hand at my shoulder pushing me deeper in. You continue, “We are good for each other. Please, let me be here for you.” I sink deeper; the coarse, sticky sand rises to my knees. Maybe you’re right. You’d never leave me. “I love you, you don’t want to be alone.” I barely notice the sand, your voice lulling me into a sense of comfort. A sense of calm. Deeper and deeper I sink, my legs fully submerged under the sucking grime. Wait. I’m letting it happen again.

“Enough!” I spit out. And I twist out from under your hand and rip my legs, one by one, out of the muddy pit. “I’d rather be alone and myself than who I become when I’m with you.”

“Who you become?” Your voice comes out harsher now. Less melodic. Less lulling. “With me, you don’t reach too high. You are safe. Stay with me, and we can go back to bed and forget about all this.

“Stay here? In this tomb of a house? The walls, so heavy with decay?” I snarl, and the walls of the foyer begin to bubble and buckle. You don’t seem to see it, you never see it. Fungi bloom along the edges of my vision. Mold and spongy growths burst from behind the wallpaper and muck oozes from the floorboards. Remember how long we

took to decide on a wallpaper? At the time it seemed like the biggest conflict we’d ever get into. Now the floral design is covered in sludge, slime, and months of avoidance. I gesture wildly to the scene, “I’ll never understand how you can look at this—this broken carcass of a house, of a relationship—and see something worth staying for!” The stench of the rot becomes overwhelming and I feel tears streaming from my eyes. Batting them away, I say accusingly, “Can you not see this?” I rip a handful of grime and rot-encrusted decay from the wall and thrust it under your nose, “Can you not smell it?”

You’re staring at me blankly and push me out of your face. My hand must appear empty to you. How can you not see the deterioration and disrepair? The toxicity we’ve let fester behind our walls? You shake your head and there’s pity in your eyes. Disgusting, patronizing pity. But the thing is you’re wrong. There is more to life than being paralyzed by fear and familiarity, more to life than sleepy apathy. So, I am leaving. I am leaving.

I know the exact moment my decision becomes real to you. Something in the way you now fold in on yourself shows that you’ve realized I’m serious. Serious about leaving and serious about staying gone. And suddenly, I am a giant. I swear the floor shifts and cracks under the weight of me. I am too large in this moment—too potent. My voice, booming when I speak.

“I am something without you. I just have to find what that means again. I need—no, I want something other than the numbness of this house.” I feel myself shrink back to size, the suitcase held firmly in my hand. “I want something other than sleep.” I turn and reach for the door.

Opening it releases a wave of heat and humidity into our chilled house. You always kept the AC on full-blast.

The outside air makes my hair stand on edge; my nerves hum to life. The moon outside is bright, glaring, and alien. Behind me, you are as you always are—soporific and familiar. But familiarity isn’t the same as being loved. Then I step across the threshold into the sweltering midnight heat, closing the door shut behind me. the threshold into the sweltering midnight heat, closing the door shut behind me.