Geoffrey has been an officer for almost twelve years, and the weight he's gained hangs out over his belt. He's tired, and making another stop at this house has never been high on his priorities list.
He's got kids at home. Hannah's sick. He's not sure how much longer she'll live, even with the chemicals of artificial life pulsing through her blood. He's been looking at caskets. The small ones. She was never very big.
It's almost like he's shopping for death.
The flashlight wavers and tumbles out of his hand.
***
There's so much to look at once you get inside. It practically begs vandals and hoarders. For the most part, it has been left alone, as Geoffrey takes his job seriously. He's never been inside; it never was of much interest to him.
***
Hannah closed her eyes and breathed her last in little pain, on a cold March day without rain or wind. The cemetery seemed almost reverent when she arrived; a prize to hold forever under the grass that wouldn't grow.
Geoffrey sits on a folding chair, his heavy head in his hands, his eyes hidden from those two stones he hates and loves with all his tortured heart. He only has so many lights in his heart. Two have already gone out, and he's not sure how many more it's going to take before he gives up.
***
The years don't stop, even for sorrow. Geoffrey passes on at an early age, a victim of smoke and guilt. The vandals start up again, and the house misses some windows and valubles. The words that fill the walls are vulgar in sound if not speech, and upstairs the dust falls quicker and is wet by a few misplaced drops of water.
***
The house has suddenly become an item of extreme interest. Archaeologists and tourists alike pile in, exclaiming and exploring with their voices, warned not to touch but spread their fingerprints over ever surface.
"There's a staircase, over here," Dr. Yavich remarks, indulging completely in the little interest he has. Anything that is an excuse to forget is welcome to his tired mind. The newspaper folk and reports surge to the staircase, forbidden to go up, but pushing the limits nonetheless.
Yavich joins the wave, unable to let go, unable to think of anything but this house. It's all that matters. He can't go back.
A forgotten portrait hangs on the wall, depicting a pretty young woman holding an unsmiling baby.
Heat floods to Yavich's face, his fingers coated with frost.
***
Mrs. Yavich comments on a newspaper article. "There's ad for a girl that's been lost, mm," she says, her drunken voice slipping over the less important consonants.
"Been lost?" Conversation was easy. Repeat the last two words. Don't engage. Don't think.
"Mm." A page flips slowly. "Been lost, used to live in that old house, you know. Says she might be dead."
Yavich drops his head into his hands, tremors sliding up and down his veins.
***
The news is splattered with stories of a stabbing. Nothing is surprising; this is unfortunately common in the city. The story of the missing girl disappears with the appearance of a death, and Yavich is violently ill. The money he does not have for his wife's addiction goes directly to the doctor, and the word debt grows higher on his forehead.
Mrs. Yavich is found passed out in a bar.
***
Geoffrey's nephew, who is now 47, has taken his uncle's place at the police station. His daughter is getting married, and he has never heard of Hannah. He sits at the desk, waiting for his shift to be over so he can go home to the love of his life. Her name is Tessie.
A old man crashes through the doors. His bony hands are clutching a broken cellphone, and he's crying like you've never seen an old man cry. Geoffrey's nephew starts and leans over the desk.
Yavich turns himself in as a witness who stood by and let crime take its course. A death was ensued. Shame is a slave-master.
***
Three years have passed, and there's someone upstairs in the house. Her face is hidden, but it has been plastered on paper so often that she's almost part of the earth. She's crying.
Around her on the floor are pictures. Hannah. Geoffrey. Mrs. Yavich. Tessie.
And...
The lights are all off, because the darkness makes it easier to see. There's footsteps through the halls, but it's nearly impossible to tell their age. Abandonment has been all this building has known for years upon crying years. It seems to hold secrets, but even the secrets are somehow unimportant; just as outdated as useless as the people who once treasured them.
So it doesn't matter.
***
The house burned down in a freak accident, along with everything it ever contained. An investigation brought back little; there was no paper left in the house. Questions arose, but it was too late.
Underneath the rubble and ash lies a curled up body, charred beyond recognition.
It doesn't matter anymore.
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