Cluttered (Short Story)

Another short story that is almost a kissing cousin to the last. It is not a direct sequel to Ella Cinders, but occurs in the same neighborhood with some of the events effecting the character's lives in the story.

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Cluttered

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            I sat there for what seemed like eternity listening to one of the babies that shared my room cry. I was the oldest kid living in the orphanage, so it was my responsibility to shut them up while the caretakers slept for the night. It’s the least I could do since they put food in my mouth and a roof over my head. But nobody knew that inside I too was crying.

            My mind was cluttered with broken memories of the past. My brain has tried to repress pieces of that night, but I still remember how the heat singing my skin felt as the firefighters pulled me out. What is strange about house fires is that nobody knows what sets them off. They are usually obscured in mystery. Religious fanatics sometimes blame fires on Satan, while firefighters usually blame them on electrical wiring. But no one could place the blame that night on why several houses down my street lit up the wintry neighborhood.

            I remember watching snowflakes fall through the foggy police car windows taking me to my next destination. I was too young to understand that my parents were really gone - their absence helped me start to remember how I spent last Christmas: eating with family and playing with my cousins. And now I sit rocking a baby to sleep in my arms at the orphanage. It’s Christmas again and I’m glad that these babies have someone taking care of them, but babies are too young to understand the meaning of Christmas. I wish I was a baby and meaning did not exist. There are many people that don’t have families like Ms. Helga down the street. Perhaps I should go see her and wish her a Merry Christmas. I knew too well how it felt to spend Christmas alone.

            Once the baby shut its eyes in a deep sleep, I laid it back down and covered it up warmly beneath its blanket. I took my jacket from my closet and put it on. I slid my feet into my snow boots and laced them up tightly. Every time I sneak out of the orphanage I strategically think like a ninja; I quietly sneaked downstairs without putting much weight on either foot to prevent from making the wooden planks squeak. I unlocked the door and I was free at last. A sheet of ice paved the sidewalk and I scooted myself half the way down the street. Snow flurries wisped past my face like small puffs of clouds. Before I knew it I was looking up at Ms. Helga’s house covered in a layer of snow.

            I left a thick trail of footprints behind me as I waded into her yard. I climbed up the icy steps of her porch and was soon facing her faded front door. It had been a few weeks since the last time I visited Ms. Helga. I knocked on her door but received no response. As I began to turn around I heard her muffled voice yell from somewhere in her house. “Who is it?”

            I yelled through the door. “It’s me Elliot.”

            “Come on in.”

             I turned the rusty handle and pushed the door in. The door wouldn’t budge more than a few feet so I sucked my belly in to fit through the crack. Once inside, I immediately smelt a strong musky scent filling the air. I looked behind the door and noticed a mountain of trash bags pushing against the back. The bags were filled with clothes and the floor was covered with her belongings. With each step that I took, I waded into a universe that was far different from the clean one I was use to at the Orphanage. Most things that I stepped on broke beneath the weight of my feet. She had obviously bought more stuff since the last time I was here.

            Ms. Helga was a high-class hoarder. She didn’t treasure things like McDonald french fry boxes and hamburger wrappers. Ms. Helga and I ran a trading business between one another. She had a very specific taste for items that are out there in society; I go fetch them and she rewards me greatly. Doing business with her helps me get back some of the toys that I lost in the house fire.

            Ms. Helga Dupree was a poor old lady and I sympathized for her, but in her delusional world she is rich as a queen. All of the items paving her floor were considered her treasure. She found most of her treasures by dumpster diving and extreme yard saling. Everything she owned seemed to complete her as a person. Her walls were filled with shelves that sat things like antique plates, carnival glass candy dishes, porcelain dolls, and Toby mugs.

            As I swam through her dank, populated world she harked out from her bedroom at the end of the hallway. “Elliott, what is taking you so long, darling?”

            I yelled back, “Hush, I’m coming!”

            The only way to reach her bedroom was to crawl over a mountain of treasure that towered up to the hallway ceiling. The hardest part of climbing up this hill was to grab onto something stable and not get cut by something sharp sticking out. I looked up and eyed the light fixture hanging down from the ceiling; this object was like my arch nemesis. There had been many times that this thing has whopped me in the head as I was trying to make it over.

            Ms. Helga hollered out again. “Just crawl over, dear!”

            “That’s easier said than done.”

            “What was that?”

            “Nothing.”

            “I could have sword you said something unless I’m losing my mind.”

            “I said mountain climbing is fun.”

            I looked down at the base of the pile and saw a gardening glove wedged between the head of a rocking horse and the end of a baseball bat. I put the glove on my right hand and used it to swim up the sea of junk. My feet began breaking plastic things like the board to the Hungry Hungry Hippo game. I grabbed a hold of the legs of a wooden chair buried beneath the junk and used them to help catapult me over to the very top.

            Once I was on top of the mountain, I scooted my butt across, quickly dodging the infamous light fixture. Conveniently enough, there was a snow sled sticking out and I rode it down the other side of the pile. I landed comfortably on the cushion of Ms. Helga’s bed.

            Ms. Helga was sitting at the end of the bed. Her hair looked unwashed and frizzy like the last time I saw her. She looked up at me with her hazel eyes and started laughing. She said, “Glad for you to pop in, Mister Elliot.”

            “It’s not funny. I could have killed myself.”

            “Well, you’re alive. What sort of treasure would you have for me today?”

            She was expecting for me to have one of the many items that she has been looking so she could reward me with a toy from my past. It seemed like Ms. Helga’s house had a little bit of everything housed inside its walls. I replied to her, “I am just here to wish you a Merry Christmas. That’s all.”

            For the first time I think I saw sincerity in her eyes. She said, “I was just thinking about you a moment ago.” She got up from her bed and strategically walked across the room without breaking any of her treasures. Even though most people could not navigate through her messy house she had it figured out. She came back with a rectangular package that was gift-wrapped in metallic red paper.  The paper was taped and folded with perfection around the sides of the box. A streaming, bright green bow was placed on the top.

            She lightly sat the package in my lap. She said, “This is yours, Elliot. Merry Christmas.”

            It warmed my heart to see that she thought of me. Beneath the green bow I saw a nametag that had familiar writing on it; it said, “To: Elliot”. I got a good hold of the wrapping paper and began tearing it to shreds. Pieces of the red metallic paper fell to the ground. The gift was a Ninja Turtle van still in its box like it had just been taken off the store shelves from the 80s.  This was the present I was supposed to get from Santa Clause on the Christmas that they died. This jogged a forgotten memory – the memory of the Christmas before I lost them.

            I remembered the Christmas tree blinking in the middle of the living room while family members entered the front door. They were there for mom’s unforgettable Christmas dinners. I remembered smelling the overwhelming scent of apple cider luring people into the kitchen.

            I sat in the floor with my cousins playing with my new Ninja Turtle toys I had just got from family gifts. I looked across the living room and that’s when I saw her cutting up with mom on the sofa. Her hazel eyes stared into mom’s eyes. Her hair wasn’t unwashed and it wasn’t frizzy like it is now; it was curly with a hint of auburn. Her face was free from the wrinkles that scarred her now.

            She quit laughing and cut a strange look toward me. All of a sudden the record player sitting on the skirt of the Christmas tree began playing the sleigh ride jingle. I watched its needle drag across the ridges of the bouncing record. It played, “Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too. Come on, it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you…”

            I snapped out of the memory and Ms. Helga was up in my face breathing her rancid breath on my neck. I screamed at her. I said, “Who are you Ms. Helga and how do you have all the toys from my past?”

            Ms. Helga’s eyes became wide. She asked, “What’s wrong, dear? Do you not like your gift?

            “Yeah, I like it, but I no longer think it’s a coincidence that you have all of my old toys just lying around your house.”

            “I grabbed what I could that was not blackened or melted by the flames.”

            At that moment I realized that she was referring to the house fire. I said, “I remember your face, but time has not aged you well.” Ms. Helga made a shocked face. I added, “I don’t fully remember who you are.”

            “It’s better off that way, Elliot. I was a bit more functional before your mother’s death. It’s like the fires that your dad fought in the day got them while they were asleep.”

            “My dad was a firefighter?”

            “He was the fire chief. Dousing flames was his purpose in life. It excited him, but most of all, it rewarded him when he would save people from them.”

            “Ms. Helga, why have you been playing games with me? You have been enabling my behavior. I just turned fourteen. It’s abnormal for me to want to play with kid’s toys.”

            “It’s been helping you, Elliot. It’s been helping us both.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “You are no different than me, Elliot. We make these trades with one another because we are so much alike. You trade to get the old toys from your past. It brings you somehow closer to your parents, does it not? I get my treasure and you get yours.”

            “What do you know about the fire?”

            “I know that your family was targets of the great fire. An arsonist lit up the homes of the city’s top firefighters. A delinquent boy dressed as a woman. He burned down his parent’s and pastor’s houses before targeting people in his hometown. He hid out for months and planned his wave of attacks. They said that he was the product of mental and physical abuse. The newspaper referred to him as Ella Cinders. He thought he was a dark Cinderella and could purge this world of evil and rekindle it anew.”

            “Where is he now?  I want to show him what I’ve lost.”

            “No, Elliot. Vengeance is what burned in his heart. I don’t want it to catch to yours.”

            “You have to stop this, Ms. Helga. You are burying yourself in mountains of collectibles, but you cannot recollect what the meaning of life is. Everything in this world shares value and meaning. You are sick to think that another piece of treasure is going to make you any richer. This is meaningless.”

            At that moment I realized that she just wanted to protect me from the horrors of the world. There was nothing I could say to her to sway her from her ways. She couldn’t save herself from the world so she hid behind mountains of her treasures. It gave her meaning and purpose. Deep inside her mind she thought she was a queen living in a castle. I was probably one of her loyal subjects. If this illusion was how she coped, I was not going to take that away from her. They say that your house is a mental representation of your mind; it is no wonder that both mine and hers was cluttered.