Chapter 31: The Old House

Death was never an option I entertained. Despite the agony, my parents' selfish exit left me stranded, carrying the weight of their choice. It felt like an abandonment, albeit one without any obligations left in its wake. Still, their departure remained a stain of irresponsibility.

But now, in the presence of him, such concerns felt trivial. Each morning brought with it a nauseating reminder of his existence.

The idea of revisiting the old house crept into my thoughts, a desire to confront its echoes of the past. It hadn't seen much activity since my last brief stay, and I voiced my intent to Devon, who readily offered his company.

Rumors swirled that those who took their own lives became specters haunting the living. If my parents were among them, I silently pleaded for their aid in ridding myself of Devon's grasp.

As we entered the familiar confines of the old house, memories flooded back with each stroke of the rag against the dusty cabinets. My voice broke the silence, recounting the grim detail of my parents' demise, their anniversary unnoticed and unacknowledged.

Devon's reaction mirrored horror, his thoughts likely racing to challenge the timing of their passing. Yet, the scene, once revisited, offered no solace, only persistent nightmares.

I couldn't find closure amidst the resentment, even as Devon offered his support. His whispered reassurance fell on deaf ears as I questioned the purpose of life itself.

Philosophy offered no solace, leaving us adrift in a sea of existential uncertainty. His silence spoke volumes, interrupted only by a feeble attempt to anchor me to the present.

But what was his motive? Was his affection a facade, a tribute to my deceased parents?

The irony wasn't lost on me.

Hours turned to dusk as we toiled away, cleaning every nook and cranny. Devon's unexpected help would have shocked anyone familiar with his disdain for such tasks. Yet, amidst the labor, my mind wandered to darker thoughts.

Death seemed an enticing prospect, especially within the confines of this ancient abode. Perhaps as a spirit, I could reunite with my parents, free from Devon's grasp.

In the midst of sorting through my old belongings, a revelation struck: a hidden compartment concealed beneath the desk. How long had it been there, lurking in the shadows? During my college years, when the room saw daily use, such a secret would have surely been discovered. Had Devon planted it there?

With painstaking effort, the compartment yielded its secrets—a notebook, familiar yet shrouded in mystery. My father's meticulous habits came to mind, but the clandestine nature of its storage begged a question: why was it hidden away, concealed from view?