The House of Happiness

Your name hurt. It hurt to say. Hurt to think. Hurt to hear. Each syllable slowly unravelled, dragging its nails down my heart of stone until it cracked. The grey rubble fell, bit by bit, until all of the memories, all of the joys, all of the pain, gushed from the cracks, drowning my insides before overflowing through my eyes. I wasn’t supposed to cry. But that book. That damned black book is the last thing I have left of you. And I don’t know how much longer I have left with it. I close the tear-stained pages and press them between the tattered leather cover. Running my fingers along the spine I notice every detail — every indentation, every cavity, every scratch — and savour it for what may be the last time. I lift my head from the indelible journal on the marbled bathroom bench and lock eyes with myself in the dull, elongated mirror in front of me. Everyone always tells me I have your brown eyes and perhaps once upon a time I did. They were like golden pools of honey which absorbed gleams of sunshine and reflected their sweetness back into the souls of anyone you looked at. Passersby would grin and anyone lucky enough to engage in a conversation with you would leave in a sugar coma, so deeply paralysed by happiness and pure contentment. Now my eyes are empty, broken — sheer brown — and, as for yours, I’ll never get to see them again.

“Adela Crinsgo, number 278” buzzes a droneing voice over the intercom, “Please proceed to desk 4.”

I swipe the book from the bench and into my chestnut messenger bag, swinging it over my shoulder as I hurry out of the bathroom. The waiting area is filled with people — mostly older — all emitting the same woeful, tragic essence. Some crying agonising weeps of pain, others simply sit in the chairs with an unforgettable emptiness in their eyes. The floor was a deplorable ashen carpet with tufts of wool protruding out and entire sections completely missing — revealing an unforgivable, leaden concrete underneath. There were countless rows of plastic gray chairs facing twelve connected booths, behind which hid busy men and women who clicked away at their keyboards and mumbled the numbers and statistics of the ill-fated to their current clients.

I shuffle down the aisle in between the army of chairs, as the harsh sniffles and sorrowful murmurs of others welcome me into my new inescapable reality. The melancholy of the room now has a tinge of inquisitiveness as people begin to stare. They don’t say anything, but they don’t need to because their gazes scream their judgements and questions of a thousand voices, so loud that my ears begin ringing. She’s so young, why is she here? Where are her parents? Poor girl. She must be so scared. Something really bad must have happened. After what feels like an eternity I dreadfully approach desk four to be greeted by a small, wrinkled old lady with a pair of rounded gold-framed glasses resting upon her nose.

“Identification, hun?” she blurts callously. I reach into my satchel and dig around for my ID card and hand it to the lady who is impatiently staring up at me from her excessively large swivel chair. She lowers her glasses slightly and peers over the frames, squinting, to examine the card before setting it on the desk and smacking her keyboard with seemingly futile letters and numbers.

“You’re daddy, Wilfred Crinsgo?” she questions, barley looking up from her computer.

“Yes ma’am.” I breathed shakily.

There was something about her sweet Southern accent that was unbelievably obnoxious — insulting even. Her eyes lacked a certain sympathy that even the most heartless people seemed to show. Although, I guess she does this hundreds of times a day.

“Do ya’ have anything of his for the Deceased Association Sampling?”

I reach into my bag again, but his time I grab the black leather book, giving it a loving squeeze before I pull it out. My trembling hand begins to perspire as I place the book on the counter, but I can’t let go. I hear my heart begin to crack again. I feel the water trickling through my body, slowly quenching my insides. I can’t cry again. Not again. Not here. With my eyes closed, I breathe long, controlled breaths, exhaling the water in my sodden heart through quivering breaths. My eyes open to the grimace of the lady, disdainfully tapping her fake, marone fingernail on the desk.

“Don’t waste me time little lady. If you want what's in the will give me ya’ damn book or move ya’ caboose out of the way so I can help another client.”

My head starts spinning. My brain feels like it is bouncing off the inside of my skull. Every cell in my body is screaming. Without any thought, I shove the book forward. Everything is silent again. The lady begins smacking her keys for what may have been seconds or hours. I can’t tell. All of a sudden a luxurious brown briefcase appears on the desk in front of me, being held closed by two leather buckles. I tear my gaze from the suitcase and back to the lady.

“This is it?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“What’s in it?”

“I’ve got no idea, but what I do know is I’ve got at least fifty customers waiting to be served and you, ma’ dear, are no longer one of them. Have a nice day.”

Without any reaction, I snatch the case off of the bench and beeline for the exit on the opposite side of the room. I keep my head down. I feel their eyes on me again. I can feel their judgments. Everything in my body is racing — head, heart, feet. These people don’t even know me. Why do they care so much? Right before I push open the door I spin my head to bid farewell to my critics, my audience, but no one is looking at me. Not one single person. Without a second thought, I run. Run as far as my feet can take me. The dam of my broken heart has broken, now gushing from my eyes, blurring my vision. I am being drowned, inside and out. I charge down the bussing street, bumping off of the indifferent pedestrians, like the ball of a pinball machine.

With nothing but my instincts guiding me, I stumble to the small steel gate of my house — well, what used to be. The once lively, enchanting villa, although only housed my father and me, was a testament to not our success, but our escape from our hapless fate. It wasn’t much, but it was ours. It was now dressed from head to toe with bright yellow caution tape with a bright red ‘Eviction Notice’ devouring the door. I open the gate and the comforting shriek of the rusty hinges comfort me. The cobblestone pathway murmurs as I shuffle up to the moss-infested slab steps, laying the briefcase down as I collapse onto the cold, hard ground. I know what’s in the suitcase, I don’t even have to open it. He told me it’s what he would leave for me, but a small part of me prayed that it was something else. Something better. Something more. I tear the buckles open and the case beholds at least twenty-thousand dollars of bright green cash.

Something isn’t right. I’ve lost a part of you that I’ll never get back. A part of your soul. You always told me to take chances, gamble a bit, because life's just a game, right? Isn’t that what you said? But here I am, sitting on the icy cobble stairs of what used to be our home, our proof that sometimes if you're lucky, you do win. The song of laughter that once echoed through the house while we danced to the rhythm of our contentedness no longer whirred through the tiny rooms or the cracks of the walls. I press my ear to the ghastly wooden door as the memories consume me. The memories of what once was and what no longer will be. I press my back into the door and bury my face into the nook of my knees, letting tears stain my pants. I have been robbed of everything I have ever loved. You lied. Life isn’t a game because games are supposed to be fun. This is some cruel joke that has ripped every last drop of joy from my body. I have nothing. No one. I am a child, who has lost everything, sitting on the doorstep of a house that no longer exists.