Page 1 of Dozer

CHAPTER 1

Kenzi

The bright morning sunlight spills through the oversized windows of my townhouse, washing over canvases that lean against nearly every wall. I’d in part chosen this townhouse due to the windows and natural light streaming in. The artwork is mine, something I’m proud of. Bright cobalt blues collide with violent streaks of crimson, a sunflower explodes from a galaxy, a large black raven perches on the hood of a vintage Mustang. I paint what I see and how I am feeling. Of course, none of the art or colors match. Each one is as individual and unique as I am.

That's precisely how I like it. My father would call my place chaotic; my older brother would shrug and call it mine. He accepted me for who I am, with no expectations to change or judgement for my quirkiness. Sometimes, he’d look at me with a bewildered gaze and shake his head before embracing me in one of his bear hugs. His hugs would darn near break my bones.

I smile at the thought as I cross the living room balancing a fresh mug of coffee in one hand and a paintbrush I forgot to rinse three days ago in the other. The paint has hardened to the bristles and I’m debating whether to try and wash it or toss it.

"Don't judge me," I tell the brush. “It’s not like I meant to abandon you.”

Dexter, stretched across the back of the couch like he's the one who pays the mortgage, opens one green eye when he hears my voice as if he is trying to decide if I’m worth fully waking for.

"I wasn't talking to you."

The orange tabby yawns dramatically before turning his back on me.

"Fine. Be that way."

Military kids learn early that home isn't a place. It’s not four walls and a front door. Home, is whoever unpacks boxes beside you every few years. Home is your family; houses are merely shelter. That’s how my childhood was spent. By the time I'd graduated high school, I'd lived in seven states, overseas in Germany, and in enough identical base housing to recognize floor plans before I walked through the front door. Most base housing is identical to the one next door, with drab beige or white walls and strict rules about not painting or decorating. They want the house to be exactly the same when you move out, and sometimes moving happened suddenly.

Every house we’d lived in had looked exactly the same to me. My father had strict rules for us growing up. The house reflected him and his leadership. Every lawn was perfectly mowed, all the beds neatly made the second we got up in the morning, and we never went to bed with dirty dishes in the sink.

While my father liked order, my mother liked routine. The Army made sense for our family because it demanded both. It made sense for them. Me? I’m so different from my parents and brother, I’ve wondered more than once if I was adopted.

This townhouse is the first place I've ever owned. There are no inspections, no housing office or rules about what I can or cannot hang on my wall. No one to tell me command hooks aren't allowed on the drywall. I hang up art, my art, all over the walls, and I painted one accent wall emerald green simply because I could, and because it’s my favorite color.

My kitchen chairs don't match and neither does my cabinet full of dishes, most of which I bought at thrift stores and estate sales. I have bookcases laden with books and nicknacks. The shelf nearest my couch is about as chaotic as the rest of my home. It holds forensic anthropology textbooks while also displaying vintage cameras I've rescued from thrift stores. A LEGO Saturn V rocket stands proudly beside a human skull replica I purchased during graduate school.

People tend to assume those two hobbies are mutually exclusive.

They aren't.

At least not in my opinion.

I wander toward the kitchen, absently humming Queen under my breath as "Don't Stop Me Now" plays from the record player near the windows.

The music skips.

Again.

I sigh.

"I know. I know. I'll replace the needle." I say to absolutely no one.

Dexter looks offended by the interruption.

"You've never appreciated Freddie Mercury."

He blinks slowly at me. I’ve never met anyone as judgmental as my cat.

"It’s not your fault, really. You just have terrible taste."

The cat sneezes.

I consider that a rebuttal.

The coffee maker beeps behind me.