I watched the shows. Intervention. Addicted. Cops. Bad boys, bad boys. I know what they do. But, what if the rumor is girls? Why does that make the latest events harder to accept? Girls can shatter a backdoor slider just as easily as guys. Girls can creep into your home and tear it apart. Girls can rip through boxes and bags and belongings just as quickly and as coldly as their male counterparts. So, why does the description of “young female crackhead” make this cleanup so much more tedious and tender? I scrutinize the damage trying to get into a junky’s head. Not one box overlooked. Every box unlocked. A wooden recipe box overturned. Every little black engagement box pried open. Toolboxes. Hat boxes. Shoe boxes. Music boxes. Cracker boxes. I’m in awe of how thorough the search was. And yet, at first glance they missed everything.
We wander through the topsy turvy rooms in disbelief. I’m on the phone saying what the fukc? Until I can’t find Indiana. For those of you keeping score you know Indiana is a box of ashes…and remember not one box was left unlocked nor overlooked. Disbelief quickly turns to complete and utter despair when I can’t find Indiana’s box. I have never felt such ice cold rage race through me at the exact same time as complete heartbreak. simultaneous torturous emotions surging together. My swearing with bravado is quickly replaced with shuddering sobs. Kisa later called me incoherent. Ruby rushes right over.
We found Indy. A bag of powder that could only be the cremated remains of a 13lb cat lay amidst the rest of the nightstand’s debris. Indiana’s box lay broken on the floor. By this time we were counting up the could haves – they could have taken this; they could have taken that. Head scratching items curiously left behind. Piece by piece we sifted through the remains to realize it almost all remained. Nearly everything.
We count it up. They got away with a laptop that wasn’t ours (sorry, Dave!). Odd and worthless pieces of jewelry. Nine years worth of quarters and nickels. A pair of earbuds. Nothing more, nothing less. They got to see where I keep my vibrator and my Winnie-the-Pooh blanket. They know I bathe in epsom salts and keep a stash of dried cranberries in the fridge. They know I sleep with a turtle. They went through every box I own.
So I go back to Intervention. Cops. Crime TV. I replay the day’s events. Returning from a funeral. Walking in on chaos. Shrugging off the missing. Shouldering the blame. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. My sensibilities have been raped. Nothing makes sense. It’s like salt in the wounds.