Buried in Sunshine Read Online Free Page A

the water reminds me of Alexis’s beautiful eyes. I see her
face in my mind. A terrible flash of a false memory encroaches its
way into my head—the image of her hanging lifeless and swaying
gently from the cord around her neck. In tears I drive away. I head
out of city and into the country as I make the short drive home. I
think about swinging by the cemetery. It seems like something I
should do—but mom is there with her. I don’t need to go, I don’t
want to go. I arrive back home. I pull the car, a silver 2010
impala, into the rock driveway and park beneath the shade of a tall
oak tree.
    A rabbit crosses my path as I walk the short
path that leads to my front door. A red door stands at the top of
three weather worn concrete steps with black iron rails on each
side. I place a silver key into the lock and give it a turn. The
door creakily opens. I keep meaning to oil the door so that it is
not so noisy; however, I am constantly forgetting to do so. It is
on a short list of things that either need repaired or replaced in
the house, such as the screen on the back door, a window on the
second floor doesn’t shut all the way, and the basement needs to be
swept for spider webs—but like I said before, I dislike going down
there and will avoid doing so as cleaning the cobwebs ranks very
low on my priority list.
    I enter the house. In the warm spring sun I can
smell the faint scent of cedar hanging about the air. I pass the
main hallway that once had pictures of my mother and sister upon
them—I have taken most of them down months ago as I could no longer
stand to see them. A taped up moving box full of family photos now
resides in the basement. I wonder if the pictures miss me, as
sometimes I do miss them.
    I make my way up the iron spiral staircase,
which squeaks with each footfall, and head up to the second floor.
I pause for a moment as I stop and think back to when things in
this house weren’t so quiet. Now it is just me—me and the house. A
house that is far too big for one person. I have given some thought
to moving, but I find that the thought of leaving gives me much
more terror than the idea of simply staying. After all, despite
everything that has happened here, it is where I am most
comfortable. My therapist says that I should work on leaving my
comfort zones if I want to get better. I disagree when it comes to
this house.
    I think of going back into my mother’s room.
There is still some paperwork that I have to go through. I have
been tossing old statements and documents over the past few months.
Today I do not feel like it. Most days I do not feel motivated.
Today I feel depressed. It could be because that today is the day
my sister died—but it is most likely not, most days I feel like
this. I wish I didn’t. Then again, if wishes were granted so easily
then no one would ever want for anything. I am not naïve enough to
believe that I am the only one in the world who feels this way—I
just wish it weren’t me. Then again, I suppose that is the fate of
anyone who has depression. They don’t want to feel the way they do.
They envy those who can operate normal lives the same way that I
imagine that the dead envy the living.
    I continue up to my room. I kick off my shoes
and peel out of my jeans and kick them beside my bed. I adjust my
pink panties with the little red flowers to be a bit more
comfortable against my skin as I lie upon the old couch. The sun
feels warm against my bare legs. I pull my shirt over my head and
remove my bra allowing my bare breasts to be exposed to the
sunlight. I then arch my back and push down my panties, tossing
them onto the pile of clothing on the hardwood floor beside me. I
allow the warmth of the sun to cover my naked body like a calming
blanket of radiance. I close my eyes—even with my eyes closed, in
the sun, there is never a sense of darkness. I clear my mind of all
thought. I brush my fingertips against the soft, warm skin of my
stomach. I allow my hand to slide