HOME | DD

Description
Raindrops pummeled shattered windowpanes, as the still visible light shone through their cracks, turning the worn floor shades of rainbow blue. Stillness, almost tangible, rested upon the house. Its charred black walls and still standing cupboards were the only proof that life had ever been there. But there was a change this cool sunset as a door creaked and swung open, nearly falling off its hinges: a visitor had entered.

Muddy combat boots moved across the once hardwood floor, tracking in a mess with every step. The house seemed to moan with each forward motion, nagging the wearer about their untidiness. Now who is going to clean this up?

A large duffle bag descended to the floor, a metallic clunk announcing its placement. Following suit a plaid pleated skirt with a girl inside set itself down. The sound of a zipper being undone reverberated as two pale hands shuffled through the bag’s contents. Finding what they had searched for, the hands emerged with the creators of the metallic clunk: a flashlight and a razor.

The legs seemed to fidget as the razor was set aside momentarily and the flashlight was turned on. Illuminating their surroundings, the hands searched the walls, only finding more wreckage than had been visible in the dimming light. Seeming unsatisfied in its findings, one hand placed itself upon the floor and helped its owner onto her feet. Reaching down, the same hand grabbed the bag and razor.

The boots continue through the house. Seeming to know where they intended to go. Missing a hole in the floor planks there, a rat carcass there, rounding each corner with decision, it was impossible that they were not familiar with their surroundings. But, the house protested, no one’s been here in years.

Moving down the hall, the boots stopped in front of a burnt picture still hanging on the wall. They rested there briefly, shift their wearer’s weight uneasily and moved along. They rounded the next corner to reach the kitchen. Here the damage was the worst. The once gleaming stove was now a ravenous heap of burnt metal; the surrounding counters (though still standing) were burnt beyond recognition. Once more the boots held still, as a hand surveyed the ruins with its flashlight. The other’s grip around the razor tightened as the boots quickened their pace.

Their destination was reached at the remains of the first floor bathroom, and their stride showed relief as they clunked across the tile to the back corner. Once again the skirt met the floor, as did its wearer. Beside her she set the duffel bag. Flicking off her flashlight, all went dark. There were no windows in this part of the house, and in the solitude all that could be heard was the slow steady breaths of the intruder and the constant beating of rain on the saturated roof.

The hands shook now as they searched the bag once more and pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper covered with obscure scrawling. After placing this upon the skirt, the hands tentatively reached for the razor.

* * *

A shutter slapped open and shut against the house’s side, the wind throwing open its windows. The storm outside was worsening and the dripping sound of leaks had grown louder. One deafening seepage came from the bathroom that had lain quite for sometime. The house had not bothered to notice this before; too preoccupied with the damage the encroaching storm was reeking on the foundation. Peering into the room, it was met with what, for the house, was a normal sight: for many things came to die in this old home. Sighing, it carried on its worry of self-preservation, writing off the body bleeding on its floor.

Just one more broken thing in a broken home…

Description
Raindrops pummeled shattered windowpanes, as the still visible light shone through their cracks, turning the worn floor shades of rainbow blue. Stillness, almost tangible, rested upon the house. Its charred black walls and still standing cupboards were the only proof that life had ever been there. But there was a change this cool sunset as a door creaked and swung open, nearly falling off its hinges: a visitor had entered.

Muddy combat boots moved across the once hardwood floor, tracking in a mess with every step. The house seemed to moan with each forward motion, nagging the wearer about their untidiness. Now who is going to clean this up?

A large duffle bag descended to the floor, a metallic clunk announcing its placement. Following suit a plaid pleated skirt with a girl inside set itself down. The sound of a zipper being undone reverberated as two pale hands shuffled through the bag’s contents. Finding what they had searched for, the hands emerged with the creators of the metallic clunk: a flashlight and a razor.

The legs seemed to fidget as the razor was set aside momentarily and the flashlight was turned on. Illuminating their surroundings, the hands searched the walls, only finding more wreckage than had been visible in the dimming light. Seeming unsatisfied in its findings, one hand placed itself upon the floor and helped its owner onto her feet. Reaching down, the same hand grabbed the bag and razor.

The boots continue through the house. Seeming to know where they intended to go. Missing a hole in the floor planks there, a rat carcass there, rounding each corner with decision, it was impossible that they were not familiar with their surroundings. But, the house protested, no one’s been here in years.

Moving down the hall, the boots stopped in front of a burnt picture still hanging on the wall. They rested there briefly, shift their wearer’s weight uneasily and moved along. They rounded the next corner to reach the kitchen. Here the damage was the worst. The once gleaming stove was now a ravenous heap of burnt metal; the surrounding counters (though still standing) were burnt beyond recognition. Once more the boots held still, as a hand surveyed the ruins with its flashlight. The other’s grip around the razor tightened as the boots quickened their pace.

Their destination was reached at the remains of the first floor bathroom, and their stride showed relief as they clunked across the tile to the back corner. Once again the skirt met the floor, as did its wearer. Beside her she set the duffel bag. Flicking off her flashlight, all went dark. There were no windows in this part of the house, and in the solitude all that could be heard was the slow steady breaths of the intruder and the constant beating of rain on the saturated roof.

The hands shook now as they searched the bag once more and pulled out a crumpled piece of notebook paper covered with obscure scrawling. After placing this upon the skirt, the hands tentatively reached for the razor.

* * *

A shutter slapped open and shut against the house’s side, the wind throwing open its windows. The storm outside was worsening and the dripping sound of leaks had grown louder. One deafening seepage came from the bathroom that had lain quite for sometime. The house had not bothered to notice this before; too preoccupied with the damage the encroaching storm was reeking on the foundation. Peering into the room, it was met with what, for the house, was a normal sight: for many things came to die in this old home. Sighing, it carried on its worry of self-preservation, writing off the body bleeding on its floor.

Just one more broken thing in a broken home…