The key they'd given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home. I open the door tentatively, preparing myself for the usual barrage of insults to be hurled out as I crossed the threshold, finding myself strangely disappointed when none came. It's not that I'm missing the abuse, not exactly, but I do miss the person who perpetrated it. As I step into the dim hallway, stifling a cough at the musky air, I'm transported back to my childhood; a sorry affair, devoid of love and caring kindness, instead filled with rage, despair, and deep insecurity, none of which belonged to me.

I walk down the hall, turning right into the first doorway: the living room. I take a quick breath, careful not to breathe the smell of damp mould in too deeply, before throwing open the curtains - something that had clearly not been done for a very long time - and opening up the window, letting a gust of fresh air sweep into the room. As I look out of the windows, windows I'd spent most of my youth longingly staring out, dreaming of a quick escape, I'm overcome with sadness. Not for the parent I'd lost, but for the parent I'd never had, the parent he now never would be.

I turn from the window, surveying the room, covered in rubbish, a hoarders paradise, evidence of a wasted life. All fucking shit, I think to myself as I move into the kitchen, straight for the window, throwing it open before the stench of stale memories overtakes me, turning into the dining room, then heading upstairs, advancing from room to room, each window being left open behind me as I desperately try to breathe in some fresh air, rid my lungs of the panic building with each stale inhalation, trying not to focus my gaze on his belongings, all his shit, it's all shit, it's all fucking— 'SHIT!' I yell audibly as my shin slams, hard, against a small chest of drawers in the hallway. I wince, hopping on one leg, holding my injured shin in my hands, breathing deeply. Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale.

I recover quickly, a mental barrage of shitfuckshitfuckingshitfuckowandfuckingshit bringing me back to earth faster than the breathing, and notice I've knocked over a framed picture. I pick it up, placing it upright before my brain reigsters the contents: my sister, Charlotte, beaming up at the camera, cradled by her husband, her three kids grinning cheesily in front of them. Of course, one of the only pictures in the house, and it's of the golden child. I swallow down the spite rising from my stomch, up through my chest to my throat, threatening to suffocate me, engulf me, devour me whole. But where is the golden child now, dad? Where is she, now that you're gone, and someone has to sort through the mess you've left behind?

I shake the thoughts from my head, visualise a clear blue sky, no cloud in sight, just as my therapist instructed. It's not fair, I know this, it's not fair, but when has life ever been fair to me? I head back downstairs before the bitterness can spill out of me and soak into the carpet, already blackened by the memories seeping out of the walls, instead beelining for the kitchen, dropping my backpack on the kitchen counter, filled with nothing but rolls and rolls of black bin bags. I crack my knuckles, pull a roll out, and get to work.

Several hours and many rolls of bin bags later, I wipe the sweat from my brow, dab the tears from my eyes, and tie the last bag of the day. My head is pounding from dehydration, a symptom of the trance I've been stuck in, traversing the long roads of my childhood I've been stuffing into the black bags at my feet. I stand up, pushing my arms above my head, pulling myself into a full body stretch before grabbing my backpack and heading for the door. Stepping into the cool summer evening, I pull the door closed behind me and insert the key back into the lock of the house that never felt like home.