Andy stood there in his old room. It was dirty. It was dusty. It smelled wet. There was a dark streak of mold climbing the wall. For whatever reason, he had gone straight for the bedside table and grabbed the drawer pull.
Now he stood frozen, looking down at the knife, that 24 hour period in which he received it replaying in his mind like a 4k video. He reached down and picked up the knife. It had never been opened. He did not open it. He placed it in his pocket like it was an afterthought and looked around the room. Nothing had changed: the same posters still haphazardly hung, the ratty furniture in the same spots. Andy wondered if there were still clothes in the dresser, but dared not look. He imagined how much cockroach shit was piled in the nooks and crannies and he shivered. Nothing here was worth keeping, nothing worth redeeming. Just like when he left.
He walked quickly back towards the front door, purposely not looking at the blood stain on the floor. He strode out of the still open front door and slammed it shut behind him with a single flick of his hand. He got into his car, pulled out his phone, brought back up the search results for "biohazard remediation", and tapped on the first result.