Hebe

Ave Hamilton

Winters at the cabin were inhabited by comfort and warmth, and Hebe always found herself longing for the familiar aroma of the crackling wood fireplace, the carpet that was rough and musty under her thick socks, and she never wanted to leave it, that is, until that one December afternoon when she was just twelve and she opened the front door, at her mother’s insistence to let the fresh air in—it had been perfectly warm inside, and Hebe will always miss the stale air her mother robbed her of when she insisted that she let the fresh air in; when Hebe twisted the brass handle when she was still young and twelve, she was met with the stench: it was metallic, sharp, and brought a bitter bile to her throat, the smell of it not unfamiliar, but never had she been met with it from the comfort of her dear cabin, and after slamming the door back shut, that tangy scent made her run, run up the steps and to her room in the attic, and to her bed where she curled, tightly as she could manage, into a ball, and finally, there she was warm and almost comfortable with the exception of the rotten, aching feeling that tore at her abdomen, even as her mother called after her, asking if she was okay, and did she need anything, and Hebe wondered how she would ever speak to her mother again, and wondered why her mother hadn’t thought to warn her of the metallic stench that was waiting for her outside of their cabin doors, that smell that Hebe never would have known if it weren’t for her mother’s insistence, but the smell had been familiar, and Hebe also wondered where it possibly could have come from; eventually, she would have to encounter it again if she ever wanted to go outside, and she might as well attempt to understand it before that happened, so slowly, she unraveled herself from her comfortable, tight ball, and though her stomach still ached, she made her way down the stairs, gently this time, and found herself in front of the dark wood French doors that barricaded her from the tangy, metallic smell—they were just h er cabin doors, though, and her mother wasn’t anywhere to be found, so she turned the brass handle and pulled the door towards her and there: the bitter scent, still overwhelming, but more familiar this time, so she swung the door all the way open and took a step forward onto the porch with the intention of searching for the source of the smell, only to immediately be distracted by the sudden squelching underneath her feet, and the uncomfortable soaking of her socks that followed, so she looked down and the gasp that escaped her was involuntary because her eyes were met with a viscous red liquid that pooled out from underneath their cabin’s doormat and seeped into her socks.

Ave Hamilton

Ave Hamilton is a writer born and raised in the suburbs of Seattle. It is her fourth year at Western as an Environmental Science major with a minor in English, and she’s so grateful for the opportunity to learn about the world and write about it too.