Home Is Where the Bodies Are

by Jeneva Rose

Death reminds us that life isn’t infinite and that one day, our time will come too.

Knock, knock. Don’t worry. It’s not for you . . . this time.

It’s odd. Some people never see it coming, others have a countdown, and I don’t know which is worse.

Addiction is exhausting for both the users and the ones they use.

She told me flowers reminded her of life—beautiful, delicate, and short-lived.

There’s not many things you can count on in life, but that . . . is one thing you can count on. It will rise and it will fall—no matter what. Don’t matter if you’re sick or sad. Don’t matter if there is war or there is peace. Don’t matter if you see it or you don’t. That sun. You can count on it.

Even in her dying days, she’s still trying to teach me, to guide me, to show her love her way—through lessons and words of wisdom.

When you shine brighter than the sun, it’s hard for others to look at you, so you have two choices: look and be blinded with resentment or look away.

Time stops when death makes a visit. I’m in shock, not only from losing her but also from hearing those final words.

But sometimes it’s the bad things in life that make us feel the most alive.

Money changes people the same way death does. If you don’t know how to manage every aspect of it, it’ll bring out the worst in you.

It’s funny how memory works. Our brain decides what’s most important and retains it—the rest, it just lets go. Song lyrics we remember for years, decades even. Are they important? Most likely not. But they’re tied to salient moments.

As we age, we shed layers of ourselves, disintegrating like any other organic material, but some of us just break down faster than others.

He closes the door behind him, leaving me to fend off the monsters on my own. But they’re not under the bed anymore. They’re in me.

Michael’s eyes meet mine. “Guilt can eat you slowly or swallow you whole.”

I think that people dislike something for one of two reasons: we truly dislike it, or we dislike it because it gives us an opportunity to value something else more. And when you don’t have much in life, there isn’t much you’re able to detest before you run out of things to, well, detest. So, Beth chose crust. Michael chose this town. And I chose myself.

“Just because you’re a parent doesn’t mean you can’t do bad things. Ted Bundy had a daughter and so did the BTK killer. I’m sure their children told themselves, But he’s our dad. He could never . . . Anyone can do anything at any time,” I say, staring directly at my sister.

“It’s the not knowing that kills me. A mixture of hope and grief is toxic, like combining ammonia and bleach. On their own, you can stand it at least for a little while, but together, it’s deadly.”

And although I’m falling apart—somehow, I feel whole in his arms. That is why we cry.

You can know a person your whole life but never really know them. Because they only have to show you what they want you to see.

You don’t believe in monsters until you’re living with one . . . and even then, you don’t believe until you’re looking in the mirror, realizing you’ve become one of them.

Why’d she even write them down to begin with? Perhaps it was cathartic to tell someone her story, even if it was just a blank page. I can understand that. There are many truths that I have written only for myself. Because some stories aren’t meant to be shared.

Addiction is like having your arm in a vise. You can’t loosen the grip. You can’t pull away. You just have to learn to live with it.

Honestly, I don’t think there are any good parts in any town. Some areas just hide their indiscretions better.

They say the truth will set you free, but they don’t tell you it can set you free in the same way death does.

Resentment only poisons the person who consumes it, not the one it’s intended for.

“Anger is easy, Rebecca. It’s the most rudimentary of human feelings. Babies experience anger. Psychopaths experience anger. People with little to no brain activity experience anger. But compassion and forgiveness are challenging. They’re the most complex of all the emotions. So, no . . . I’m not angry with them.”

“‘The best stories come from those that are flawed, broken, really. Those who have endured trials and tribulations. Those who have faced the world and come out on the bottom. Only they can tell stories worth listening to, for they have had more than one beginning, more than one middle they’ve dragged themselves through, and more than one ending . . . and despite it all, their story continues.