300 Writing Prompts

Dark House

Somewhere in Japan, where the trees are multiple, a house stands. It looks welcoming to those in a depressed state. I don't mean it looks like a refuge, but it looks sad. It stands alone, covered by trees. It's raining, it has been for awhile now.. the sky is a white horse grey. The rain falls gently, but hard enough to leave you considerably soaked. You can hear thunder, distant and near. You catch small flashes of lightening every other minute or so. Behind the house there is a garden. The rain plip plops onto the leaves, the rain makes the edge of the roof sweat. A feeling you can't quite pinpoint is affecting you. We go inside now to see a man standing at the top of the stairs. He's smoking a cigarette. He's in a deep red colored robe with slippers on. His hand is in his robe pocket, in his hand he is holding a locket. His other hand is holding his cigarette between his middle finger and ring finger. He moves slowly, taking a puff, and slowly blowing a gust of smoke out. He stares at the window to his left, watching blankly. He looks to his right, transitioning his hands in the process. His left hand that was holding the locket moves to his lips, his right hand moves to the railing of the steps. This man is in his mid-thirties, American. He can't quite pinpoint why the atmosphere he has collected is the way it is, but deep down inside, he knows why, he knows...
He looks down into the squareness of his home. Silently, he walks down the stairs.
He walks all the way to the back door and sighs gently. He looks at the flowers and plants being watered gently. A wind chime cries softly. The sadness in his eyes is overwhelming. He walks to the stand next to his couch and puts out his cigarette. He turns back to the back door, the rain coming down harder than ever. He thinks about a time when being alone didn't ever occur to him. He considers lighting another cigarette. He decides against it and walks to another room in his house. He stands in the doorway and eyes an old grand piano, as shiny and magnificent as the day he bought it. He looks at the art on his walls, Japanese, Chinese, Egyptian, and French. His mind wanders back to the time when he bought those pieces. At the time, it brought him great satisfaction, but looking at them now, he couldn't help but feel like he wasted his money on them. His pain could not be painted, he thought. He walked into the room and slowly and carefully he sat down in front of the black beast of a piano. He closed his eyes and inhaled, brushing his fingers against the keys ever so lightly. He exhaled when he reached the last key. He positioned his hands, his eyes still closed and played "La Dispute". The songs sadness ate him up. He opened his eyes and looked into the doorway, and for a second he thought he could see her standing there, watching him play..his breathing wavered as he continued, he shook his head slightly and looked down at the keys. Even though they are gone, the pain doesn't go; it hurts everyday to be alive. The man stopped playing and walked back to the living room. He made his way back up the stairs. He stopped at the window, finding his lighter and a cigarette sitting on the sill. He puts the stick between his teeth and lights. He thinks back to a time when he promised he would never become dependent on those things, but like his heart, that promise was broken. He stared again blankly out the window. He thought he could see her footsteps, walking away from him. He walked to his room and simply turned the light on."My Pain Ends When I Do."

The End