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The street I grew up on is untouched. A green canopy of wild forest leaves intricate shadows on the dirt. Ancient mailboxes covered in ivy and baseball bat dents surround the street.
Then my number comes up.
And I already see the effects.
The door is ripped off from the old tin mailbox. The driveway is overrun from rain flooding, becoming a mismosh of gravel and dead plants. On The bridge both protective sides have been blown off by some unseen storm and carried off to a sad place filled with broken toys and lost tap shoes. I stand on the edge and look down at the clear stream, remembering all the games I played in it, when all I needed was a stick and some mud smeared on my little fat face and I was a commando, behind enemy lines waiting to put a bullet in the head of any passersby that noticed me.
Fond memories of an a-typical serial killer childhood on this nervous night in Jersey.
I see the dead wagon. The mercedes benz that has become that lost trailer in the woods, its flat wheels being strangled by weeds and its hull showing signs that the rust is in it for the long run. Walking down the brick path my father and I laid together I see our lawn. Once a beautiful arena for the gymnastics finals and world series, it had now become an overrun jungle filled with prowling tigers and ants the size of puppies. Felled apple trees lay dead on the grass having fought many wars with the great oaks, who stand injured and swaying, ready to give out and drop.
The stairs feel soggy and weak under my weight, and I make sure to twist my way around the holes in the boards, which lead down to a dark dirty place where I can see gigantic worms sucking on the bones of the family dog..
Spiderwebs and guano litter the porch and I get that feeling that at any moment a tarantula might lower down and crawl down the back of my shirt.
So, I spring forward and swing the door open with my right hand and pass it back to my left as I step inside. Only years of practice keep it from creaking like an old witch.
And that's what the house had become. She'd become a big,dirty, cold old witch who has become decrepit and insane after years of neglect.
In the grand "foy'ere" there are stacks of newspapers and pizza boxes and garbage. At least three weeks worth, maybe more.
I slip in past the french doors and get them to click just right, without looking, and run full force across the living room. Zig zagging like deon sanders between armchairs and coffee tables, until I reach my stairs.
I grab the banister and propel my body passed the first 5 steps and a joy beyond words overtakes me as I sprint up the carpeted steps, knowing my old room awaits.
But its cold, and its dusty. And it seems like no one has been IN the room in over three months.
But when it becomes night. And I dim the lights. and I can see my books and my dvds and my comic books and my posters and and and... There is no physical place I'd rather be. Surround by all my Stuff. My Possessions. My warm,lifeless,beautiful..crap.

I'm afraid to let myself feel the hurt and yet upset that I feel like I have no feelings. Only Bliss and Suicidal.