The House that Burned

Gallery in the Garage

I was standing in the centre of the small town of Hexton. And right before me was a small bookshop with a jaunted sign. I smiled at it, being somewhat comforted by its sight. My legs brought me forwards, almost by their own accord, and before I knew it, the jingle of a shop bell rang in my ears. I was greeted by a wave of warm air that hugged me tightly. Every wall was piled with books, old and new. I wasn't a big reader, and yet their sight lighted a spark in me. Something brought me forward, took me to each shelf, and dragged my finger along every spine. I sunk to the floor almost overwhelmed with the homely feeling. I could live here.

"Do you need any help?" A voice enquired.

I looked up to see the owner above me, with glasses perched on the end of her nose. The glow of the ceiling light illuminated the back of her head like a halo, and she looked like a goddess. I smiled and shook my head in answer until she went away. Then I picked myself back up again and turned to face the bookshelf that I had leant against. I was drawn towards a thick book in a deep green colour. It reminded me of a spell book or something magical that shouldn't exist. Taking it out of the shelf, I examined the cover. The house that burned. I flipped the book in my hands but there was no blurb. I searched for an author, but the only writing was that on the cover. I flicked to the first page, grasped by the title.

Albert had a long and straightforward life ahead of him it read. I felt my fingers tighten their grasp as I tensed all over. Albert was my name. It was only when Frieda came into his life that it spiralled. Unease spread through every cell in my body. Frieda was my girlfriend, and I can undeniably say she was the beginning of my troubles. This was no storybook character or a figment of someone's imagination. This was me. I was holding a book about me—my life. Like a dog hungry for food, I devoured the words on the page.

Frieda was a nice enough girl. There was nothing wrong with her, and there never was going to be. Everything turned around when Frieda made it clear how she felt about Albert's career. Albert adored sculpting and wanted to one day turn to it as a full-time career. In the garage, he had set up a small gallery of all his pieces which his neighbours would often visit but never buy from. Frieda worked tirelessly, but Albert hardly realised. She wanted nothing more than for Albert to have a stable career so that one day they could perhaps settle down.

I sucked in air through my teeth. I wanted nothing more than to believe this was fake or some sort of sick joke that was being played on me. But I didn't know anyone who I would have talked to about our rows. Had Frieda really felt that way? Thinking back, I had never seen Frieda working. I had only assumed we worked equally as hard. I had to admit I only ever sat in front of a canvas for a few hours a day, while she was away for most of daylight. I always got annoyed at this. We hardly ever saw each other and meet-ups were far from frequent. In our 4-year relationship, we only had a couple of dates. But perhaps she was only doing what she had to.

The resentment of Albert's art career only became worse when Albert announced he had quit his job as a postman. Albert had always wanted to be a postman since he could walk. It didn't make sense to Frieda why he would choose to leave. Arguments became more and more frequent until it was unbearable. Something would have to give. And it did. It was on one morning when things took a sinister turn.

I knew what was coming, and I braced myself.