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Authors: Kelly Fiore
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there so he wouldnât have to deal with stairs. When I said that that made no sense and asked what the difference was between going down a flight or up a flight, Cyrus called me a bitch and my dad called me insensitive. So I shut up and tried to ignore the three weeks of hammering and sawing and Dadâs horrible country music wafting from below my bedroom floor.
Cyrus had a door with a gold handle. It was weirdly shiny and new in a house filled with rusty everything. I knocked softly.
Nothing.
I tried again. I leaned my ear against the door. Cyrus couldâve been home, but I doubted it. It was way too early. For a second, though, I thought I could hear him, pressed up against the other side, breathing hard. Then I realized it was my pressing, my breathing.
âCy?â
No answer.
I tried the knob. It was locked.
I walked over to Dadâs tool chest and dug out a putty knife from the bottom drawer, then lodged it between the lock and the jamb like a credit card.
The door slid open without a sound. No click. No alarm. No scream of indignation. Nothing but my involuntary gagging when the smell hit me full on.
Ever seen an episode of Hoarders ?
Welcome to Cyrusâs room.
I avoided breathing in through my nose. Cyrus wasnât there, but everything else was. And most of it was trash.
I picked my way over the floor, or what wouldâve been the floor if it hadnât been covered with clothes and junk. There was a desk in one corner blanketed in magazines and fast-food wrappers. An old PC monitor sat on the floor next to it. The flat screen Dad got Cy for his birthday was leaning against one wall, plugged into a power strip. A can of soda was tipped on its side, a pool of syrupy liquid inching dangerously close to an extension cord.
It looked like a meth lab waiting to happen. All youneeded were some decongestants and a hot plate. I couldnât believe my dad let him get away with that shit. A wave of fury crashed up against my rib cage. I got reamed out if I didnât do the dishes, while my fuckup brother could house a miniature landfill beneath our feet and Dad didnât say a single word.
I took a few tentative steps, then spotted the unmistakable translucent orange of a prescription bottle on the floor. I leaned over and moved aside a ratty pillow. There were dozens of bottles. Maybe a hundredâall empty. Heâd stripped the labels off, the ones that had his name and address, but some of them still boasted warning stickers:
            Take with Food.
            Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery While Taking This Medication.
            Do Not Chew or Crush. Swallow Whole.
Then, right next to that, was his kit. One of them, anyway.
The glass from a picture frame. A razor blade. Strawsâsome from fountain sodas, some made out of what looked like pages ripped from magazines. A roll of foil. A rainbow of lighters. And an almost-full bottle of pills.
They were little and round. They looked harmless, like breath mints. Like baby aspirin. I pressed down hard on the cap. Carefully, I shook four tablets into my hand. I peered at them, transfixed. How could something so small cause so much damage?
Two thoughts entered my mind concurrently.
Take them with you. You can flush them.
Take them with you. You can sell them.
Itâs true that the things in my life that were the most essential seemed to be the most expensive. I still owed money to Dr. Schafer. I always needed to pay for gas. Sometimes I was stuck buying groceries. Or picking up Cyâs prescription.
This could be like a refund. Like a reimbursement.
Jasonâs face was suddenly in my mindâhis leering gaze, oily words asking about my brotherâas I grabbed one of the empty bottles and let four pills slide inside. When I made it back to the door, I considered covering my tracks. But looking back
Cyrus had a door with a gold handle. It was weirdly shiny and new in a house filled with rusty everything. I knocked softly.
Nothing.
I tried again. I leaned my ear against the door. Cyrus couldâve been home, but I doubted it. It was way too early. For a second, though, I thought I could hear him, pressed up against the other side, breathing hard. Then I realized it was my pressing, my breathing.
âCy?â
No answer.
I tried the knob. It was locked.
I walked over to Dadâs tool chest and dug out a putty knife from the bottom drawer, then lodged it between the lock and the jamb like a credit card.
The door slid open without a sound. No click. No alarm. No scream of indignation. Nothing but my involuntary gagging when the smell hit me full on.
Ever seen an episode of Hoarders ?
Welcome to Cyrusâs room.
I avoided breathing in through my nose. Cyrus wasnât there, but everything else was. And most of it was trash.
I picked my way over the floor, or what wouldâve been the floor if it hadnât been covered with clothes and junk. There was a desk in one corner blanketed in magazines and fast-food wrappers. An old PC monitor sat on the floor next to it. The flat screen Dad got Cy for his birthday was leaning against one wall, plugged into a power strip. A can of soda was tipped on its side, a pool of syrupy liquid inching dangerously close to an extension cord.
It looked like a meth lab waiting to happen. All youneeded were some decongestants and a hot plate. I couldnât believe my dad let him get away with that shit. A wave of fury crashed up against my rib cage. I got reamed out if I didnât do the dishes, while my fuckup brother could house a miniature landfill beneath our feet and Dad didnât say a single word.
I took a few tentative steps, then spotted the unmistakable translucent orange of a prescription bottle on the floor. I leaned over and moved aside a ratty pillow. There were dozens of bottles. Maybe a hundredâall empty. Heâd stripped the labels off, the ones that had his name and address, but some of them still boasted warning stickers:
            Take with Food.
            Do Not Operate Heavy Machinery While Taking This Medication.
            Do Not Chew or Crush. Swallow Whole.
Then, right next to that, was his kit. One of them, anyway.
The glass from a picture frame. A razor blade. Strawsâsome from fountain sodas, some made out of what looked like pages ripped from magazines. A roll of foil. A rainbow of lighters. And an almost-full bottle of pills.
They were little and round. They looked harmless, like breath mints. Like baby aspirin. I pressed down hard on the cap. Carefully, I shook four tablets into my hand. I peered at them, transfixed. How could something so small cause so much damage?
Two thoughts entered my mind concurrently.
Take them with you. You can flush them.
Take them with you. You can sell them.
Itâs true that the things in my life that were the most essential seemed to be the most expensive. I still owed money to Dr. Schafer. I always needed to pay for gas. Sometimes I was stuck buying groceries. Or picking up Cyâs prescription.
This could be like a refund. Like a reimbursement.
Jasonâs face was suddenly in my mindâhis leering gaze, oily words asking about my brotherâas I grabbed one of the empty bottles and let four pills slide inside. When I made it back to the door, I considered covering my tracks. But looking back
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