Short Stories!

a forgotten memory (idk)

Quick Side Note: This was just me practicing perspective, but I'm really proud of this! That's all I really have to say though. Enjoy!

The old, broken house looms, looking like a piece of the past frozen in time. The grey sky makes it look sad and forlorn.

You gaze up at it. You should remember. It was yours once. But all you see is the fading blue paint chipping at the edges.

You hesitate before entering. There is a tree, worn and old next to the entrance. It's the only thing in the garden that has stood the test of time. You see an old swing hanging from a branch, rocking back and forth in the wind. You must've played there once. But you don't know. You take a deep breath, then step inside.

You listen to how the tired, dirty floors creak. There is a small table in the foyer, with large square of paint that is even more faded than the walls. A missing photo, you think absentmindedly, as you walk into the kitchen.

The rush to leave is evident in this room, the pantries are left open, and there is shattered glass on the floor from a broken jar. You step over it cautiously. There is a dinner table too. The chairs are pushed out frantically, and there are plates on the table. It is covered in a fine layer of dust. It seems they got the warnings while eating dinner, you think.

You walk into the living room next. It is common, and everyday. A couch, an empty bookshelf. Nothing special. You move on quickly.

There are no large rooms left on the ground floor, so you decide to go upstairs. As you walk up, there are similar squares on the walls as in the foyer. You wonder where the pictures went, and if they were left. Much like the floor, the stairs creak under your weight. There are two large rooms, so you start with the closest.

It is yours. Yours and someone else's. If you had known, you would have prepared yourself. But you didn't, so now you stand still in the doorway, gazed locked on the toys on the floor, and the bunk bed, and tiny clothes in the small wardrobe. You shake yourself out of your stupor, and slowly make your way through the room. You touch everything, the beds, the toys, the clothes. Even the squares of faded wall, where pictures were ripped off.

You walk along what should have been your room, and, as you do, you think you hear the faint sound of children's laughter in the air. But then it's gone, swept away by the passing wind. You sigh, then move on.

The next room must be your parents. This time you prepare, but it is unnecessary.

The room is practically barren, aside from the furniture. No pictures, either. You turn to leave, vaguely disappointed.

You are stopped by something peeking out from under the bed. It is an old box, seemingly forgotten in the haste to leave. It is shut, but the lock on it is old and rusted, and comes off easily when you yank it.

You open the box slowly, then cough as a plume of dust reaches your face. You look inside, and hold your breath.

The missing pictures. The box is full of them. Some still have plaster from where they were ripped off the walls.

You take them out gently, like they are rare and precious jewels. To you, they are.

You still have no memory of the people in the pictures, but you can guess. There is you mom, with the same hair as you. She stands next to your father. You have his nose. There is a boy, too. A brother maybe? His eyes are closed in every photo, with a shiny happy smile. You shared a room with him, you are sure.

And then there is you. You may be younger, but it is undeniably you. You look the same, although the haunted look from you eyes is not there. That came later, when the world fell apart.

A tear falls from your eye onto the paper, splotching a balloon your brother is holding, narrowly missing his face. You hide the picture quickly, trying to save your treasure. You put the photos gingerly back in the box, then hoist it back over your shoulder.

You exit the room, and gaze in the direction of your own. You can see the fading yellow walls from here. You feel your eyes sting. You shake your head to clear it. No time for tears. Not now, only when you are sure no one can see you.

You walk down the stairs slowly, then stand in the entryway. The door is still open where you left it. You now see and hear the rain that must have been pouring for a while. You sigh, then adjust the box on your shoulder. You step outside, shutting the door gently. You exit and walk along the worn stone path, letting the rain fall against your face, mingling with the tears.

You stop and turn to look at the house one last time. A moment passes when everything is frozen in time. Then you focus all your energy, and the sky splits open with a fierce roar. The blinding power of lightning strikes down on the house with all its might. You do not flinch.

The light disappears, leaving the home burning in its wake. Even with the rain, the fires are too large to be put out. Soon the home will be nothing but a pile of ashes. And then only thing that would tell you that it was there at all is the box of pictures, resting on your shoulder. You turn and leave, without looking back.