Chapter Text
The humdrum of rustling palm leaves and birds sent tremors through Avery’s light sleep. It was Sunday, no need for an alarm.
The leftover effects of last night’s melatonin were still surging throughout his head. Groaning, he shifted over to his side, yanking the covers with him. Sleep almost reclaimed him, until the sound of the doorbell going off shook the sluggish man fully awake.
“Euuugh…” For ten years, a certain kind of stubborn fatigue has stuck to Avery. He found it to be a miracle that he has made it this far in life. Owning an apartment, a stable income, and there was always food on his table.
But living the same life, every day, over and over again, created a hollowness in his chest. It took a certain shape, and Avery knew what that shape was, but was too afraid to look. Too cowardly to swallow his fear.
At snail’s pace, he stumbled his way to the door. Barely registering his fingers fumbling with the locks and his hand clenching the handle. With a tug the door gave way.
A heavy package sat on the sunlit porch. Thick warm brown paper with folds neatly tucked, forming a tight rectangle.
Avery tilted his head. I didn’t order a book. Or whatever this is… He peered around without actually leaving his doorway. With no delivery man in sight, he had no explanation as to what this is and why it ended up on his doorstep.
Still, he shrugged and picked up the package. Giving it a good light shake. Definitely some kind of book. It had that heft. And feeling through the packaging, there were the ridges of a hardback cover.
Just roll with it, he thought. That’s how Avery has been living for years. Sure, he was empty and most certainly dulled. But what can he do now? Nothing.
With the door closed and relocked, he made quick work of the wrappings. Tearing them off revealed a well worn book. There was no title on the front or spine. No author either. A journal? Avery opened the book, it let out a creaking sigh as he did.
On the very first page, his heart nearly stopped. Like shattered glass, the illusion of his current life broke. Who knew it was so goddamn fragile? The book almost slipped from his hands as they shook.
And suddenly, all of those feelings he thought were either dying or dead sprung back to life with full intensity so strong, old tears burned fresh in his eyes.
Hello Avery. It’s Derek. Whenever you can, please go here: 65 N Beach Rd, Eastsound, WA 98245
…
Hello
Hi
I know this is going to be confusing
My name is
Sorry about the mess above, the pencil I am using has its eraser sanded down to the metal tip.
God. How do I even begin this? Maybe this is the best way, showing you how confused and scared I am too.
At this point, you know what this is. And you’re probably wondering how this has ended up in your hands. A stroke of luck? Fate being cruel?
It’s actually neither of those. Infinite knowledge isn’t exactly the same as foresight, but it can be if you’re good at thinking ahead. Or if you’re just paranoid. One carefully thought out probability after another, and eventually it all led to this. This book and this house.
Sorry if I’m dumping a lot on you and if some things don’t make sense, I’m sort of just throwing stuff out there so bare with me. I feel like I don’t really have a lot of time left.
Funny how time works. Infinite, yet add some restraints and a certain situation, and suddenly you only have a finite amount.
If you’re confused, scared, or even pissed at me, that’s okay. And I’m sorry.
I’ll just start here. With the house.
Despite how it looks now, this house is pretty old. It held my great grandparents and watched a good handful of generations leave and come back. Kept some of the old bits but it definitely went through a ton of renovations.
The pointed roof tops stick up higher than the trees, moss and vines have already infiltrated the graying walls. Surrounded by various dark green flora and tall pine trees, a sandy dirt path carved into the earth leads to the house.
Watch your step, the floor is littered with unevenness and tiny boulders. I twisted my ankle on that same trail when I was eleven.
Look out for elk and bears. The latter are a rare sighting, but elk are the opposite. Their long legs and body blend in well with the browns and greens of the forest so you might not see them immediately.
The whole place is nice, I have a lot of fond memories outside. Getting my hands dirty and taking photos of deers and birds (humming birds are my favorite). But ironically, I don’t have much to say about the actual house itself. Many visitors thought that it was a vacation home that could be rented out, and that me and my parents were a lovely little family.
I lived here until I was seventeen. As soon as I was eighteen, I left. I used the excuse that I got into an accelerated program. Which wasn’t a total lie. But I’d still call it an excuse, because it let me leave that house for good. Once I left, I never came back.
But even still, I dreamed of the house. No nightmares, but sometimes I wished they were. It’s better to wake up from horror-filled sleep and feel relief, than to wake up from something so beautiful only to realize it was all fake.
I dreamed a lot of what my life could’ve been if things had been just slightly different.
Again, sorry if I am being vague or rambling. I promise I’ll explain everything.
The wide porch steps groan with each step, it makes me uncomfortable in a way that is difficult to describe in just words. If you turn right, they lead to a large balcony, which makes clear how useless it is; you can’t see the bottom or far out. The forest is just too thick.
Using the key on the front door won’t work. Go around back and there will be another entrance with a doggy door. That little thing was a lot easier for me to crawl through when I was much younger.
The garage is empty of cars and smells of mildew and mold. The panes of glass are yellowed and there are several unused cans and items that are gathering the tell-tale signs of age: cobwebs and dust. The power had been cut. Instead, the softly clouded light of mid-day filters through the windows, painting the room a warm yellowish orange hue.
Heading up a tiny flight of stairs leads to the mudroom. From there, it opens to a dull-colored kitchen. It really did look like any other kitchen you would find in a home, its only outlier was the slight hoarder vibe of the room; a small fridge painted with newspaper cut outs and decorated with magnets. The cabinets feel small and squished together, and every single countertop and kitchen table was covered in stacks of books and more newspapers. All of which hasn’t moved an inch in years.
Passing over into the kitchen itself, harsh white-blue light sliced through the silky curtains. The sink was still full of soiled dishes; white china tea cups and expertly crafted glass jars; hollow remains of a family that once was.
After that, every room, every corridor, and all of the walls are painted a different vibrant color. And everything is decorated.
No spot is ever left bare, that’s how my great-great grandfather liked it according to my great grandfather Sven (I just call him Grandpa Sven). He apparently loved everything that ended up in his hands; clocks, newspapers, photos, and so much more. And that’s just wall decor.
Placing a hand on the walls, fingers would come back stained with black cakey grime. Pictures of the Hutchin’s ancestor are carefully placed to command respect; on the wall behind the ends of long dinning tables, in the living room situated right next to a wooden cross, and at the top of every flight of stairs.
His bearded face becomes more and more uncanny every time it is seen. The black and white filter doesn’t do his already grizzled face justice.
Little me really couldn’t tell you much about my family’s oldest member, other than that his name was Jack Hutchins and that he loved to collect items.
There is this lovely mural of him though, in his room on the second floor. All of my deceased family members each got a mural in their room, made by Grandpa Sven who would then seal off the rooms never to be touched by another human being ever again. So you might have to get creative if you plan on getting in. I trust you won’t break down the doors.
On the outside, this house is any modern day home. But with only a slight change in physical perspective, its colors and slides and stairways and medieval castle structures are made clear to the naked eye. A child could only dream of living in the maze that is this house.
It only took clambering dangerously out of a window, cautiously sliding around the outside walls, then pushing open another window to get into great-great grandfather Jack’s room.
With both feet in, his room feels as if a portal has taken the whole world back to the 1950’s. High contrast black and white walls with pops of technicolor posters. The old man’s room is quite small. And dead in the center of one wall is a large mural that finally does him justice. Maybe even glorifies him a little.
Either way, the painting is a true masterpiece. Unblurred strokes of paint create deep wrinkle lines and dabs of paint to create his beard hint at the use of a spongy tool.
I never got to see it myself. But I was shown pictures of it instead. I always admired Grandpa Sven’s art. I mean, that’s what kids do really; all little me saw was a pretty picture.
But now, as I think back to that mural, I see a man who drowned so many years ago. Who, despite his looks and persistent downtrodden look, was actually a rather cheerful bright man (thanks infinite knowledge). Who loved to collect trinkets and toys as a result of chronic ‘throw-away’er parents. Who was someone I really wish I could’ve met in person.
I I dunno. I like to imagine that he maybe would’ve told me something nice. Or maybe raised the rest of my family well, later trickling down to me. Maybe if he was still alive, or at least, was able to live long enough to actually teach his children well, maybe then things wouldn’t have been so messed up for me and everyone else.
I mentioned earlier how I hoped that you wouldn’t kick any doors down. Which, now that I think about it, doesn’t really make sense given my apprehensiveness towards this house. I mean, if I didn’t like this place so much, why would I care if you broke things or not?
And well, I don’t really know. I know that you wouldn’t break anything that is mine. I don’t like this place because of what I had to live through (and also what I never received), but I didn’t hate it. The whole place makes me feel weird and years later, I still can’t fully explain why.
I keep thinking back to Jack Hutchins and who he was. My mind can pick apart who he was, but there’s still infinite possibilities on what he wanted in his lifetime. And maybe who he really wanted to be for his family. Who he wanted to be for himself.
Just know that Jack Hutchins was here, but is still an enigma in my mind.
But that doesn’t matter now. I can’t change anything right now. I got infinite knowledge and a crippling headache. Not time travel.
Besides, I think it's better to move on to other people in my family and actually explain some things properly.
…
The pages are stained with tears; they dried up on the drive to the airport.
The cold salty air of Derek's home state burned Avery's nose and body, one that is more accustomed to the warmer tropical climates.
He treats the room like a museum, looking but not touching.
The person that was D3rlord3, Derek Hutchins, was always a missing puzzle piece. The outline of him is there; his absence a presence; his voice, faceless minecraft character (god that sounds so absurd now), the crafting tables, and those painful wooden signs he left, all proof of his existence. But his real face, who he really was, was always missing.
It really wasn’t fair that Derek could know everything about Avery, yet he couldn’t know anything about him. The very fact sent him into a hurricane of melancholy and even rage.
But he could change that. Avery began to push the window he entered through back open, golden light entering the room that hasn’t seen true sunshine in years.
And for once in a long time, his heart felt lighter with certainty.