The Wardrobe

The Wardrobe

I am unable to escape my memories of what happened three years ago.  I cannot escape my past, my horrors, my fears.  The guilt of my actions tears at my soul, I can feel my molecular seams tearing, ripping me apart.  I am unable to sleep, eat, think without the guilt.  I cannot escape it no matter how hard I try.  I find myself wandering, from town to town, city to city, house to house.  My memories haunt my every action my guilt consumes my soul.  I have wandered; empty, alone for three years.  Three years it has been since that dreadful day, three years I have had to live with my guilt, three years I have had wander with the memory my family’s murderer.  I cannot escape that dreadful day.  I find myself traveling from house to house, looking for some conclusion.  That is when I found my refuge, my shelter from the storm that is my mind. 
         I strode through the rusty iron gates toward the dilapidated structure that would be my house for the coming winter months, and the isolation winter brings.  I befriend this isolation, I needed to be left alone with my memories.  No other being could bear to have witnessed what I had.  No other human being could last this long with the guilt I felt.  The house was old; the wood on the outside was visibly rotting.  The front door creaked upon every movement.  The long halls in the house feed my need for isolation.  Upon entering through the doorway, there is a large family room.  On the east wall lays a huge fireplace, a good 6 feet across.  The mantle is ornately decorated with bricks.  A chair lies in the median of the room.  On the far side is a wardrobe.  A piece of art like none I have ever seen.  The structure is made of deep red mahogany, the legs of pale maple.  There are carving s on the sides of the wardrobe depicting a mother and son.  I find myself instantly infatuated with this work of art.  I cannot get away from it; it seems to grab me by the very fabric of my existence.  There are stairs in the far corner of the room.  They are narrow, and winding.  The stairs lead to my bedroom.  The empty space between the walls is filled only with a modest bed and an end table. 
         I find myself drawn to the wardrobe.  I am unable to sleep, eat, and move without the wardrobe in my thoughts.  I feel consumed by the wardrobe, drawn to the figures on its shell.  The deep red mahogany cabinets remind me of my wife’s hair, the pale maple legs of my son’s skin.