Homebody

The paint chips flaking off of the walls in the bedroom were still making William’s skin crawl. He hoped trying to sleep it off would help, but it was just as bothersome as it was the night before. Of all the little things falling apart in the old house, the dust-stained windows, the groaning plumbing, the faulty wiring, the overgrown lawn and the broken shingles and the musty carpet… the peeling paint in this one room was bugging him the most.

He found some painting supplies in the basement, and had piled them into a storage container to take upstairs. Walking up the creaking wooden steps, he froze, seeing his brother Wade loom in the doorway at the top. His dark hair was soaking wet and plastered to his forehead.

“Whoa,” Will said, trying to hide his surprise. “I thought you left.”

“I didn’t get far,” Wade replied, sloughing off his rain jacket. “The storm washed out the road to the highway last night. We’re stuck here until they fix it.”

“Oh…” he said, trailing off. Wade noticed the container in Will’s hands and his gaze became sharp through his rain-speckled glasses. The paint cans and brushes started to feel heavy in his arms.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I was just… going to go fix up some things in my old room.”

Wade heaved a deep, irritated sigh. Will avoided eye contact with him.

“It’s just that-” Will started.

“No. What part of ‘the house will be jointly owned between William and Wade Gardner until further notice’ did you not understand yesterday?” Wade angrily cut him off.

“I don’t see why I can’t fix the paint.”

“You should have at least asked.”

“You already left! It’s not like you would have even noticed!”

“That’s not the point!” he snapped.

They stared each other down in the stairwell. It was silent, save for the remnants of the storm pattering against the upstairs windows. The stillness in the air made Will’s face feel warm and his heartbeat thump in his neck. The bitterness seethed in the space between the two of them, the air growing stale and suffocating.

“Put it back. If you need something to do, go clean out the attic or something,” Wade huffed, the tension releasing like an aggravated sigh. He stormed off, Will standing on the steps as he heard him stomp all the way up to the master bedroom and shut the door. Will’s body felt warm, almost sweltering as his anger simmered into resentment.

“Asshole,” he muttered.

Slumped at the edge of the bed, Will stared at the peeling paint and felt the itch return. It crawled along his shoulders like little insect legs, the urge to scratch overwhelming. He reached for the top of the wall, peeling away the chips with his hands, relief washing over him as the feeling of insect legs on his shoulders faded away. He couldn’t stop himself after that, it was like raking his fingers over a rash. Will knew he shouldn’t be doing it… but god, it felt so damn good.

Tiny flakes of decrepit paint collected on the floor in the cracks as he sloughed the rest of it off. He grabbed a putty knife from the bin and scraped at the edges to smooth them out, lead-laden dust building up on the sharp edge like snow. As he carved away the last of the flakes, he stood back and admired his work. The walls looked worse now, but he felt a whole lot better knowing that step was taken care of. The sight of the bare walls peeking through the off-white paint in wide blotches left him feeling satisfied.

Throwing the putty knife back into the bin, he slid the whole thing into the closet. Crouching down, he pushed against the door to the attic and felt it swing open. A burst of cold, damp air wafted over him as he pulled the crate of painting supplies into the attached attic. He pulled the chain for the light and discovered it didn’t work.

In the darkness, he could hear the sounds of the house’s aging structure clearly. Ancient plumbing groaned and antique wiring buzzed nervously, the beams creaked like fragile bones as the house settled. Will thought about how he’d hear it at night as a little kid and hide under his covers, fearful of the monstrous noises. He would only stop being afraid when his father would explain it to him, showing him how to fix whatever blown fuse or leaking pipe caused it. The house shuddered around him, as if telling him there was work to do.

“YOU REALLY SHOULDN’T LEAVE THE JOB UNFINISHED,” he heard. It was something indistinct in the midst of the creaking beams and electrical buzzing, but he felt the meaning of it strongly in his mind. The work wasn’t done.

“No, I can’t. Not right now,” Will said to himself.

But he couldn’t deny that the once satisfying swatches of freshly peeled paint now felt like fresh scrapes on his shoulders. The walls felt open, bleeding, raw. He turned around and opened up the crate of painting supplies, feeling the icy air cling to his skin as he pulled out a paint can and brush. The strokes of pale paint over the skinned walls were like a salve. He dragged the brush across the walls evenly and slowly, tenderly dressing the wounds on the wall until the sun started to rise. The air rushed through the vents like a sigh of relief.