Andy returned to his house the next morning. He assumed it was his house now. It was cleaner than before, that was for sure. The blood stain was gone from the carpet. The mold stains on the walls were still there, still noticeable, but at least they weren't giant Rorschach tests anymore. Nothing a little paint couldn't fix. The floors and baseboards were free of their eighth inch of dirt.
He went into his bedroom. The furniture was still just at ratty as ever, but at least there weren't cobwebs all over it. He pulled open a dresser drawer. They hadn't opened the dresser drawer. He decided that was ok. He could throw away his own old clothes. Maybe he would build a bonfire out back.
The following days passed quickly. He met with the only real estate agent in town. He built that bonfire. He arranged to have the furniture taken away.
"I need this house to sell fast. I need to be done with this," he said.
Nine months later, he picked up the phone to check in once again with his real estate agent. They'd lowered the price of the house to the value of the land it sat on, hoping someone would at least pick it up just to tear it down. Andy thought about tearing it down himself.
The entire process was stressful and time-consuming. But it was his process. It was his experience to live through. There would be no more gambling. No more messianic work trips. He had to work through particularly tough system bugs with time and frustration, just like everyone else at work.
That Thanksgiving Andy sat alone in his apartment with nothing to do and no one to call. He felt a little bit sad. He felt more than a little bit lonely.
But he was free.