Self St rage

What they don't know, can't hurt them.

I was hiding him, far from the public eye, pushing him to the back, back into the dark. Knocking cobwebs and dust bunnies out of the way with my foot. The only light came from the orange neon sign over the street behind me. When I had pulled up to the door, I sat a minute in the car to enjoy the irony that the neon O had gone out.

As I worked to build a fort of boxes around, I listened to the idling engine, and Springsteen's harmonica coming through the rolled-up windows. The Boss usually chills me out, but I was so pissed off I found myself clenching my jaw harder with every box that I managed to stack into a casual, yet functional arrangement.

The room was only five feet by ten, and smelled like a mixture of moth balls and musty cushions. The fine dust on the floor puffed up when I disturbed it. It reminded me of the green-brown clouds that kicked up in the afternoon sun when my childhood self stomped on the short, mossy mushrooms in our backyard.

No wonder I was such a healthy kid. I ate, inhaled, rolled in dirt and mushroom spores every day. Probably the only reason I didn't get an asthma attack while I was working in the storage place. Although the dust caught in my throat and made me want to cough, I stifled the urge, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Not that there was anyone else around.

Damn, I was so pissed. It was my choice. My choice. Not theirs. If I wanted to keep him around, I would, because it wasn't up to them. They told me I shouldn't do this, and I shouldn't do that. They told me how I should grieve. But I did what I needed to do. In the midst of the "fixing" my "problem", I was getting more and more upset. I could barely see him anymore, as I reorganized.

Just when I moved the rack of hanging clothes that should have gone to the Good Will years ago, the last piece of the puzzle among all the forsaken, forgotten reminders of the past... Just when I put my hands on my hips to survey my handiwork... That's when I got angry. Furious.
Illogical.

Why couldn't I keep him around? Why did I have to hide him? It was ridiculous, unforgivable. How dare they judge me. They couldn't judge me. They didn't know. It was my house, anyway. If they didn't want to see him, they could just leave.

And then, I just didn't care. I didn't care about all the looks I was going to get. Or all the questions. Or all the frowns, and grossed-out grimaces.

I dug him out as fast as I could. I was throwing boxes around, tossing boxes over my shoulder, digging with both hands, shoveling things out beneath my legs. I heard things crunch and settle, but I didn't really listen. I got to the back right corner, where he stood, looking towards some far off place. I ran my hand over his head, and then his neck. I pulled him by the legs towards the orange neon glow. His dark eyes looked damp, forever lacquered to a sentimental shine. When we reach the car, I opened the hatch and Springsteen blared out. I lifted him up, more carefully than I really needed to, using my knees.

I slopped all the boxes back into the storage space, not caring about how best to Tetris things into the most efficient arrangement. When I came back to the car, I reached up to close the hatch against his stiff frame, which filled the trunk.

Then the hole caught my eye. There was a sorrowful patch of fake hair there, his new toupe. The taxidermist had promised that it wouldn't be obvious, that he could match the colors perfectly. But, in the sign's sideways light, it couldn't disguise the dent in his ribs, where the car had hit him. I put my hand on his head again for a second before closing the door. Then I checked the lock again on the space's garage door, and drove my dog home.