The Hoarder After Neil Hilborn ____________________________ The first time I went over to his house my hands shook not because I was nervous, but because even the railings were covered with trash and there was no way to keep myself from falling down the stairs. When we went to the bedroom, foreplay consisted of clearing all the crumpled newspapers and cereal boxes from the king-size bed before we finally got undressed. On my third day of psych class when I’d finally gotten up the nerve to approach him, his eyes looked closed off just like the shades drawn over his apartment windows. But once he let me in, he said I was the only one who ever made his brain feel quiet and uncluttered. I know it hurt whenever anyone teased him about the hoarding, but once he joked he loved me so much that he wanted to add me to his ever-expanding collection of junk mail and yarn. Whenever I left to go back to my own apartment, he’d steal my sweaters so “I’d have a reason to come back again,” though the next time I did, I would see them tangled up in a corner with all the other jackets and dresses, stained and wrinkled with the smell of mold. Some mornings I would kiss him so hard he would actually decide to empty the trash or put away the takeout cartons from dinner. We were doing good. You could see some of the floor underneath the mess, and even the windows were open, letting in the sunlight as we traced patterns over each other’s skin. But last month he said he wanted to take a break, that I was distracting him, making him feel disorganized emotionally. Isn’t that better than being disorganized physically, though? Now when I open the door to my apartment to sleep in my own bed for once, I stumble over nonexistent toys and trash. I pause a little too long before opening my closet, as if I’m waiting for a pile of newspapers to fall out and smother me. None of my rooms hold any secret treasures. I used to think about his eyes all the time, or the way he could make me feel safe even surrounded by a mountain of garbage. I miss him more than words can say. Now I just think about the new girl I saw him with yesterday, and how maybe I was just one of the things he hoarded, put on his shelf. But when he got tired of me, he kicked me out. Maybe I was the first thing he ever threw away.
Posted on: Sat, 17 Aug 2013 06:00:21 +0000
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