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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1729203-The-House-on-the-Hill
by Nikki
Rated: E · Short Story · Other · #1729203
A man finally takes a look inside the beautiful house on the hill.
He approached the white house on the hill with a sudden eagerness. He marveled at the way it stood tall, the bright blue shutters that hugged windows glistening with morning dew, the grand porch elegantly wrapping itself around the solid structure, and the brilliantly stained glass pictured on the front door.

         “Just perfect,” he muttered walking up the path surrounded by jasmine and lilacs. The intoxicating aroma filled his mind. His lips turned up at the corners. How could one not smile in the presence of such beauty and warmth? The man took a seat on the front steps. He was supposed to meet her here. They always spoke on the steps just before the door.

         The sun reflected his mood, shining bright on his face. He placed his palms beside him on the cool stone and relaxed. Some time had passed before the man grew uneasy. Where had she gone? She was never late. But of course in the company of such a beautiful scene, his ill feelings quickly dissolved. Maybe she had made her way inside, he thought. Never before had he entered the white house on the hill, but the idea intrigued him. Catching sight of the outside caused him supreme happiness; he could only imagine the wonders waiting for him beyond the stained-glass entrance.

         Slow at first, then with increasing excitement, the man reached the door. His fingers grasped the solid handle and with a soft click it opened, inviting the man inside. He had to squint to see in front of him. His eyes hadn’t adjusted to the foreign lighting. He flicked a switch beside him and at last, a dim light filled the room.

         The man gasped. The house was empty.

         “Hello?” He called.

         “Back here,” a small voice rang out in the distance. The man tentatively sauntered forward. His steps echoed through the wide space. He could barely make out the shapes of the lilac bushes from the fogged windows as he passed through the front room. An unfamiliar sickness crept over him. It was anything but right. He had expected a beautiful home filled with music and bright walls. Perhaps there would be a study filled with large mahogany book cases, a spare sitting room, maybe, or a graceful dining area. But the beautiful house on the hill held nothing. He longed for the sun, but he knew something much more precious sat only a few rooms away.

         And at last, he was reunited with the gorgeous creature and all poor feelings had left him in the instant his eyes locked with hers.

         “I thought you would never come in,” she smiled. The man sat beside the woman and took her hand in his. How he loved the scent of her perfume, the silky texture of her hair, the warm blush that fell across her cheeks. His heart fluttered.

         “How have you been, dear?” The man inquired.

         “Just fine, and you?”

         “Wonderful.” He smiled. “Are you ready to come back outside? The sky is clear today.”

         “I like it in here,” she began. “It’s quiet.”

         “As it is quiet outside.”

         “It is not the same type of quiet,” the woman argued.

         “Is not all quiet the same?”

         She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “No, it is not.”

         The man looked at her quizzically, “But the sun is bright, dear. You love the sun.”

         “I like it in here,” she repeated.

         The man sat with her in the dark silence, his agitation quickly growing. They always sat in the sun. Besides, it only made sense such a beautiful woman should be surrounded by such a beautiful view. “How could you possibly like sitting in such a cold and dismal room?”

         “This is my home,” she said simply. “It is who I am and where I belong.”

         “Then why have you never invited me in before?”

         “You never asked.”

         “I assumed you preferred the outside.”

         “Maybe I do,” she mused. “But how can I possibly live on the outside of my own home? It is here I reside. The outside does not reflect the inside nor is it supposed to.”

         “But your smile! Your smile belongs to the sun and the light just beyond the door, love. Come outside, won’t you?”

         The woman looked to the floor. She fell silent. The man was blind to see what hid behind the soft perfume and warm blush in her cheeks.

         “Won’t you?” he asked again.

         The woman rose, the movement caused her hair to fall out of place and her clothes to wrinkle. She began to sob.

         “What is it, love?” the man asked. He had never seen the woman act so strangely before. Tears poured onto her face, tainting the porcelain canvas.

         “I do not wish to go because I do not belong!” she yelled though tear-stricken cries. The man could not respond. The harsh tone in which she spoke stung in his ears. The sickness from earlier washed over him. “I am not well!” she shouted.

         “But the sun—,”

         “Does the sun not disappear in its own hours?” she questioned.

         “Love, you are not making much sense. Please come outside with me.”

         “I am not well!” she repeated. “Leave me where I belong!” she was frenzied, wild.

         “I do not like the way you act, woman.” The man took a step back.

         “Leave me!” She yelled again, but this time the woman was furious. “I, in my quiet, and you in yours.”

         And the man had no choice but to make his way back through the dark house and into the warm sun where he belonged. He left the wretched woman in her dreary solitude, perplexed. Armed with ignorance, he made his way through the path of jasmine, away from the house on the hill, and never looked back.

© Copyright 2010 Nikki (silentwriter27 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1729203-The-House-on-the-Hill