Where The Cicadas Bloom

Jakos P.O.V.

I promised I'd never go back there. To my home state. Where the Cicadas Bloom.

I groan, leaning back against the leather of my seat, looking at the orange and gray rusted gate attached to a barbed wire fence that disappears in the overgrown, almost dead foliage. The smell of spring is on the horizon, with winter's bite still in the air.

I grab the weathered key off my dashboard, stepping out and walking over to the gate. Even though I was the most hated by the Ol' Man, I was shocked when I learned that he willed me his abandoned property. I push the creaking gate open with my foot. It knocks down weeds and brown grass that's grown over the dirt driveway. Pushing it the rest of the way, I get back into my rusted Ford and drive down the unpaved trail.

The woods are much thicker than I remember. The canopy of newly growing leaves casts shadows along the way. The groan of my truck bouncing between the steady, worn potholes and groves of the trail prevents me from getting comfortable....Or is that the pit in my stomach?

Eventually, I get to the point of no return. Stopping at the old, rotting iron and wooden bridge that spans my new land's creek. I peek out the window of the truck and grunt. The boards of the bridge look like they wouldn't support my car's weight. But I've come this far, haven't I? I look at the luggage in the back of my truck; the move from New York was... long.

I start my truck over the bridge nice and slow. I get over it, but not without some ominous-sounding splintering of boards below. I stop at the other side of the path, looking back. I'll have to work on replacing those first. I definitely don't want to get stuck out here. I drive further.

The forest vegetation gets thicker, greener the closer I get to the ancient farmstead's house. The sick, twisting gut feeling wracking my insides. My knuckles are turning white against the steering wheel. I come to the bend at the base of a giant, elderly oak tree, the broken ropes dangling from the thick branches overhead. A stark reminder. I let out a deep breath and slowly knead my hands into the wheel, loosening my grip and calming my flaring nerves.

My tires roll over the patchy, weed-ridden country road. My truck crawls to a stop the the front of the withering farmstead. The wooden two-story building sits silent within the shade of the trees overhead. The once-painted white building now has its sides covered in vines and has turned a faded wood-stained gray from years of being abandoned. Just how long did he sit here... alone?

A different feeling coils in my stomach, pinching and stabbing the insides like the thorny vines wrapping around the porch banister. Regret. I exhale sharply out of my nose, stamping the feeling down with the killing of the engine. The nostalgic smell of nature grips me. I step onto the porch. The forgotten wood creaks beneath my weight.

I pull out the brass key from my pocket, and the heavy weight of its metal slides into the lock. The door is opening eerily silent, so quiet it sends a chill down my spine, the hair on the back of my neck pricking.

Cobwebs line the corners of the railing to the upstairs that sits in front of the doorway. I hesitate at the bitter words of my past coming back. ".... AND I'M NEVER COMING BACK...." They linger in the air, like the cold sweat stinging my arms. I step past the doorway's entrance and look around. I know the layout all too well, Kitchen and living space to the left. Bedrooms upstairs. The door under the stairway to the basement. My eyes linger on the silver-rusted doorknob. We were never allowed there. Everything.

Is just the way it was when I left. When he admitted to me all the lies I knew were true. I flip the light switch by the doorway. It takes a second, but eventually the lights flicker and then buzz to life. Letting memories of a dead era pass me by in forgotten family photos, greyed out, the trinkets lining the shelves, and the collectables my mother gathered everywhere. It hurt to look at all those, so I don't.

I just moved my boxes from the back of my truck and set them in the living room, the fireplace empty, the TV dead, still having one of those stupid, broken antennas I got blamed for. I scoff, shaking my head. I shut the door and lock it. Looking around the place, I flick on the living room's light. The stale smell of death still lingers in the air. They say he died here in this house, just like he always told us he would. I gaze at the leather chair that sits not too far from the fireplace, with worn cracks and a subtle, faded, and obviously cleaned stain at the top of the chair, with faint tears in the leather. His canteen sat where it always did at the bottom of his chair, on the left side.

It hurt to see the truth of his death, so I gaze at something lighter, A white, cracking working chair, worn grooves in the handle where my mother wore her worries into the wood. His temper made her nervous, and so did our recklessness. Like oil and water, a doomed mixture; Just like his canteen and that bullet-riddled, stained leather chair.