The House On Garden Court

The House On
Garden Court
by patter

Hand in hand...
all was quiet...
as mother and daughter
approached the big house on Garden Court.
The child's mother told her she would be right back. The hug and kiss coupled with the mother's promise of marshmallows was not enough to squelch her 6th sense.

All was not well.

Her little nose pressed hard against the musty old screen. The battle was on to see which hurt would win out. The knot in the stomach, the lump in the throat, the pounding head, the aching heart.
The child grew numb and pressed her nose harder into the screen. She watched her mother in slow motion, pick up her suit cases, walk down the stony driveway and disappear into the yellow cab. She was gone.

By now, the screen door's pattern was etched into the child's recollection, the musty smell into her bones. The visible impressions stayed a few hours the invisible impressions became her permanent disfigurement.

The house was dark and cold. The rooms were enormous as well as the bathrooms and closets. The little girl was microscopic compared to the titanic mansion.

It could have been the interpretations of a child lost and alone.
It could have been the house had no safe place to run to.
It could have been there were too many horrific events before she came to 57 Garden Court that made . . .

E V E R Y T H I N G

appear enormous and thundering. In the years to come it would not matter how tall she grew or how old she became for her to have an air of how immense the world was.

The years inside the house were unspeakable. She endured much to live under that roof. As far as the child was concerned it would be far better to live under the roof of the doghouse, sharing scraps.

But this is a beautiful house, Who would want to live anywhere else? Could it be it's not the house that makes the home monstrous to live in but those who live in the house . . . those who comes to the house to desecrate it.
So many questions.

No one ever questioned what went on in the privileged house. No one wondered when the little girl had trouble in school or was hurt.
The family doctor never questioned the numerous house calls.
The relatives knew something was wrong but never questioned, consequently letting the atrocious conditions remain protected. The house was a safe zone for everyone but the child.


The child grew up and left the house on Garden Court. She never looked back.

The house still stands and has changed owners. One day someone will discover scratched in the farthest corners of the closet the cries for help of a small child. But it's too late. The child is gone. The harm is done.

Healing the wounds from 57 Garden Court are possible if the child inside the adult could find her way back home.