by G.L Qanela
I have not named this.If you have any title suggestions they will be greatly appreciated.
|The dusty window frame, the gutters full of leaves and dirt exploding from the rusting pipes that no longer held water. This place was a mystery but yet familiar to me, my deserted home. There was wood covering the windows and doors, new to me, but the dead and destroyed garden was not. |
When I reached they old welcome sign, ‘Welcome to Wyndam’ I had the sense that the road down to my childhood home would be dark and gloomy, and I was right. I could feel cryptical shadows lurking behind me the whole way, wondering why someone like me had come here, I don’t blame them, I asked myself the same question.
Walking slowly towards my front door, one foot in front of the other. I was quavering and frightened of what I might see and what memories might feed into my head. I slowly reach my hand out to the brown, wooden, dusty door. I feel the pain. The suffering. The horror. From one, light touch, I can feel all the pain and commotion this house has suffered, even from before we owned it.
I carefully and steadily place my ear against the door, closing my eyes while doing this. I hear the house screaming in excruciating pain, pleading for its own life to end. I gently lift my ear off the door, as if careful not to break it. I carefully place my hand upon the rusted, cold doorknob. As I fastidiously turn the stiff knob and push the deteriorated door forward. I hear a deafening squeal, the last gasp of life from the house. I hear a crack from behind me; I quickly twist around to see a large crevice on the wall next to the door. I freeze. Time flies past while I stand their frozen, not daring to move, not daring to make that crevice fly up the wall to the roof. I could not speak or move, I could barely even breathe. My breath was short and sweet, like death was laughing at me, waiting for me to fall on him.
My senses quickly regenerate and I realise my situation. I slowly slide my foot along the ground and CRACK, the crevice increases in size. I very solemnly stretch over to the door and place my hand on the doorknob. With my hand firmly holding onto the doorknob, I jump. It’s too late when I realise that I had put all my weight on that single, delicate doorknob. A doorknob that could not hold much weight and pulled the entire door down with me. The house finally gave in. It could not stand the pain it had been through. It ended its life with me; my dead body lay there, under all the rubble. I stand with Death, looking down at my decapitated body beneath plaster and wood. My young strong body. It’s all come to an end.