A house is not a home

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NEW PROMPT:
Write a short story or poem about an old abandoned house. Who used to own it and why is it abandoned?
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The small house leaned to one side, seemingly too tired with age to stay upright. The wooden roof, warped from decades of rainwater seeping into it, was the home to countless termites that eat away a bit more each day. The musty smell went unnoticed by these insects and the many wild animals now living inside the four-room house.

Once, decades ago, there was a happy family living there, but they had long since left for a bigger and better house. Father, mother, and one girl child were all gone, with not even one sentimental glance backward. Only the building, once a loving home and now simply an abandoned house, remained.

Since then, the rooms sheltered generations of possum families and the occasional raccoon. The cupboards over the rotting kitchen counter housed field mice. They came in out of the rain one fall day and decided to stay. In the living room, empty of furniture except for an old rag rug, a skunk at one time had been startled and left a noxious aroma behind. The skunk had died years ago, but his aroma remained in the disintegrating and filthy rug.

Miles away, the father’s business prospered, and the mother even added another child to the family, this time a boy. Their new home was a five-bedroom, imitation Tudor mansion. The house was a far cry from the original home where they had lived. This one contained four people slowly growing apart in a building lacking love and joy. There was a father too involved in growing his business to pay attention to his wife and children. There was a mother slowly slipping into alcoholism brought on by loneliness. The daughter, an unmarried woman of some 30 years, remembered the days of her childhood fondly and saw endless days of nothingness stretching ahead of her. She still lived at home since it took more energy than she could muster to move on with her life. Her brother, also still at home, tried to escape once. He returned after a few months when the world became too unfriendly. He sank into a misty world of drugs.

At the edge of the town where these four lived, their first home crept closer and closer to complete collapse. One winter afternoon, the daughter decided to drive her new, bright red Ferrari for its first trial run. The father, once again forgetting her birthday, had given the car to her when he finally remembered she was turning 30. He was only two months late, but it was the thought that counts, or so he wrote on the birthday card.

Without any particular destination in mind, the daughter stepped on the gas and raced away from where her mother was deep into her fourth or maybe fifth vodka and tonic, and her brother was sky high from snorting that day’s drug of choice. As usual, her father was at work, making millions to show his love for his family.

It only took a few minutes for the daughter to make the unplanned trip back to the past. She pulled over the Ferrari to the side of the road next to an overgrown yard. There were no other buildings nearby, just fields to the left and right of the parked car and a few oak trees. All she saw in front of her was a dilapidated building that seemed somewhat familiar.

An image of a little girl in a swing hanging from one of the trees suddenly came to her. The child was laughing while a tall man behind the swing pushed her high up into the air. Sitting on the ground nearby was a young woman, happiness radiating from her at being with her husband and child. As quickly as the image came, it disappeared to leave the daughter sad and not knowing why.

She made her way through the weeds and berry bushes in the yard to the building’s front door. Another image came to her, this time of a green Christmas wreath hanging from a freshly painted, red door. She could almost smell the pine cones someone had placed at the top of the wreath near a shiny, green ribbon. The door now was unadorned, and the red paint had long ago disappeared. In fact, the door hung off one of its hinges, making it easy for the woman to push it open and walk inside the building.

She went, without hesitation, to one of the two rooms at the back. Passing by the bedroom where her parents had one night passionately created her, she made her way into the second bedroom. The small room was empty except for something hidden in the dark shadows. She heard a squeak and realized she was disturbing the sleep of some nocturnal creature. Looking around the room, she spied something on the floor underneath the dirt-encrusted window.

It was a doll or rather what remained of a doll after something had gnawed off the cloth arms and legs. Elizabeth, the woman cried to herself, how could I have left behind my favorite doll who listened to all my secrets back then? Ignoring the filth covering the doll’s remains, the woman picked up her childhood friend and hugged it against her expensive silk blouse. I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.

Another squeak at the sound of her voice reminded the woman she was an interloper in the creature’s home. It no longer belonged to her or her family, but to the animals and insects. Still holding Elizabeth, she left her bedroom, walked through the living room across the rancid rug, and out the front door. She closed it carefully behind her and continued back to her car, tears of regret flowing down her cheeks.

She knew eventually the building would collapse, leaving only a pile of wood as shelter for the animals. With one last look at where she had spent her happy childhood, she started her car and returned to the house filled with unhappiness and despair.

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Microsoft Word count = 1,000

Entry in the 12/24/07 "The Writer's Cramp - Poetry Week"  daily contest.
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