It paralyzes me, but It’s indefinable. Worse than disgust or dread, It shrouds me in a timeless instant that no Psychologist can describe. In my dreams I run from It, with my legs sometimes forgetting their purpose. Triggers are sudden and sporadic. The blue I hate because this is the color I came home to. The worn beige carpet I abhor because the memories it keeps. Large boxed TVs with plywood siding propped on floors because he lived here on the recliner I detested, with his legs crossed just so. Shirtless and barefoot, watching Tombstone with analytical determination, as if watching just once more would confirm him as Wyatt Earp, a man with purpose, instead of a night-shift worker in a factory. I’m immobilized around upholstery with flowers and stark white furniture. Ducks, geese crossing signs, and bonus rooms make me wince. The death of her stagnant bedroom dominates my dreams. I’m trapped there with the ghastly pink walls and wrought iron bed. Knowing if I don’t escape, I’ll become her. Forever tortured by the pills in my bottle, my only actions being driven by the amount left. I hate true crime and paperback books with pictures. He’s at the bathroom door in my dreams, tapping his knuckle lightly to make sure I’m in the bath, where I stay until my skin becomes pruned beyond recognition and the touch of my towel makes me cringe. I escape by climbing through the bathroom window leading to the unfinished porch. The bathroom window, once painted shut, now used as a smoking station after every recovery—a silent tell-all to our neighbors that she was once again sober. I’m on the porch, the porch he threw my dog from. I can see our kitchen table, where we never had a meal. I pass the dining room with the peel on tile that I used only as a walk-through--the long way to my room but a way I took to avoid him, his continuous presence being given away by the Brave’s announcer. Listening to sports games, wooden picture frames, curios, country chotchkies, and my brothers blue bedspread with no backing—like houses bricked only for the one side that matters. I pass the kitchen with the appliances that mama spray painted blue because we couldn't afford new ones. I see the fridge, always empty except for Cokes, and the cabinets always bare except for medicine. Saying farewell to my only childhood consistency, the sound of pills rattling in their bottles, being counted and recounted—having no concept of the hope and devastation they bring. I escape in my dreams. I won’t claim a home; the one I know I hate.