The Beginning of a Story that Hasn't Happened Yet

This story ends with my being murdered.

For those of you who either don’t stay in touch with me or don’t know me (I’m talking to you, weirdo internet pervs), at the beginning of June I moved back to Nashville after a three week respite at home in Jackson.

Respite may be the wrong word.  It was really more of a three week series of challenges to my sanity that I can with disturbing accuracy compare to a run of the gauntlet, fight with a bull, or some similar test of endurance, mental acuity and sheer inner fortitude that you know ahead of time you’re really not up to.  Then again, any of these comparisons may or may not apply to almost any period of time spent with my family exceeding three hours. Unless we all have to be in the same room, in which case it’s more like fifteen minutes. 

I actually had an uncharacteristic bout of homesickness shortly before my return to Tennessee.  I love Jackson.  I love getting iced coffee with espresso ice cubes from Cups and chatting with my favorite barista, Eamonn.  I love sitting at Julep splitting a ham and cheese sandwich with Lauren, a girl that I have been and will be friends with for my whole life. I love driving to Brent’s with Madeleine, getting chocolate milkshakes, and ridiculing everyone we see. 

Ok, I mostly like eating there.  Whatever. There’s no place like home, and all that. 

So what was I doing spending what could be some of the last weeks that I’d live there with any degree of permanence galavanting about in Nashville where I didn’t even have a job yet, for God’s sake? Not that I was really worried- that would be quickly remedied upon my arrival. (dear past Ashton, you are an idiot.)

I pondered these things on a sunny Monday while applying sunscreen before going out to the beach until mother’s voice jolted me from my reverie.

“Ashton, last week in my Sunday school class we talked about girls who sin by showing too much skin.”

“Mom. It’s a bikini. There’s not exactly a turtleneck option. Plus, I’m about to go lay out.  Showing skin is kind of the point.”

“In my Sunday school class, we talked about how those girls look like they’re selling something, and how it sends out the wrong message.”

“Mom, please stop calling me a prostitute.”

This to say, my brief foray into homesickness/dementia passed quickly and I was exceedingly happy to make my way back to Nashville. Jackson would be there when I got back.  

As Miranda and I finished our nine hour drive back to Nashville from the beach (yes, the poor girl went to the beach with my family. not something a lot of people bounce back from.) I felt a peaceful, calm feeling set in.  There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being where you’re supposed to be, when you’re supposed to be there.  I moved in to mine and Lori’s apartment (alt. title: The Love Nest), which we both adored despite the ever present multitude of reminders of exactly how weird the people we’re subletting from actually are.  I can’t even get into the specifics of how weird they are right now, and Ben and Mary warrant their very own post anyway.  I unpacked and arranged my room, which I love.  I spent the next few days watching Arrested Development, going merrily about my job search (idiot.), getting together with friends, and reveling in the fact that I live a two minute walk away from everything in Hillsboro Village. Life was perfect.

Then I realized that I live next door to a murder house. 

You might ask, as many people have, “What is a murder house?” Don’t. Don’t ask. It’s exactly what it sounds like. Use your brain.

The murder house is teal. Teal.  It is surrounded on all sides by a tall fence.  Despite the fact that the fence is too tall to climb over, the owners (read: murderers) opted to cover the entire expanse of their yard with chicken wire that is connected to the top of the fence as well as the sides of the house.  The entire chimney is covered with an excessive amount of plastic wrap, which is then reinforced with approximately three entire rolls of duct tape.  Some sort of weird noose-like structure hangs from the east side of the house. (fine, it’s just a long rope. but really. why.)  No one goes in or out, and lights come on only at night.  Sometimes, if you sit on my back porch late at night, you can hear a grinding noise for an extended period of time. 

Murder house. 

It’s the only explanation that fits. 

Now, you may have an alternate explanation, some way to reason away all these tell-tale signs.

I don’t want to hear it. You’re wrong. It’s a murder house. 

I’m really only interested in “constructive compliments” (Michael Scott), never constructive criticism, and never ever regular criticism.  Act accordingly. 

So there you have the beginning of a story that hasn’t happened yet.  I don’t know the gruesome details of how it will pan out, but, come on- I live next door to a murder house. 

This story ends with my being murdered.