The Story of Arisa Rose

A Place I Use To Know

It's been years since I've been to this forsaken house, but yet here I am walking up the drive, crisp autumn leaves crunching under my black combat boots. I look at the old house; the windows shattered, the door stained with some splatters of dried blood, long cracks among some of the multiple shades of red brick, brown flowers slowly withering away in the flower beds, and tiny notches along the chipped white pillar, that is now to my left. I run my skinny pale fingers over the many 'heighth' notches remembering my husky father cutting each of the notches into the egg white pillar. I touch the last notch and pull my hand away, as a pain strikes my chest and tears try to force themselves out of my now clenched eye lids. I open my eyes and turn the dented doorknob; my vision being blurred by the tears building in my bright blue eyes. I open the faded blood-splattered-stained door. I walk through the door, examining the flaky white paint on the old wooden door frame.