Capable Of Murder...But Not Love

CHAPTER 6

If I were to compare this house to the estate, there would be no competition...at least not for me that is.

When I think about the estate and the years I've spent in that cold prison a series of chills do a full routine tap dance on my spine. Yet, when I gaze at this house with its off white brick exterior, one car garage, and long unkempt grass I couldn'ti help but feel a sense of warmth. Something I have never once felt in that lonely mansion.

Stepping out of the car with my backpack in hand, I round the front of the car and meekly stand in front of my new "home". Storing as much detail of the house as I could to my memory.

The bed of bright orange tulips standing proudly underneath a window on the far left hand corner of the house. Its flower bed beginning to curve, circling around the side of the house, perhaps leading one to the backyard where a garden of tulips are held.

Taking a few steps forward, I take in more details of the house. Such as the red brick walkway underneath my feet that make a winding path from the driveway towards the front of the house where it leads to a pair of matching steps.

The steps then connect to a large wooden porch, consisting of a pair of identical bright orange rocking chairs sitting in front of two large oak wood patio doors, while they sway gently in the breeze.

But, out of everything I've been able to see thus far, the one thing that has stood out to me the most, is the vivid shade of yellow that decorates the front door.

In all of my seventeen years of life never have I seen a house such as the one I am standing in front of. Not while I lived in England, or even from the houses I somewhat recall from my childhood.

Turning around I survey the homes that line the neighborhood, and they were just as I predicted them to be...plain. Although the homes were beautifully manicured to perfection, there was nothing special about them.

Albeit with the exception of a few homes displaying deer lawn ornaments, nothing about these houses were different nor stood out from the next. They were merely photocopies of each other but, out of all of these houses, this house was the only one on the street, or hell even in Woodpines that was...original in a sense.

Its small and unusual details are what made it unique and special from all the other houses in town, and that is something I can appreciate. Maybe that's why I feel some type of warmth towards this house, because I can relate to the fact that we're both two unusual things that don't seem to belong in Woodpines...or anywhere for that matter.

"Did you just compare yourself to a house?" The little voice murmurs.

The sound of the car's trunk being slammed shut jolts my attention from the house to my mother who stood tiredly at the back of the car, with my suitcase in one hand and duffle bag in the other. Walking towards her with the intention of helping her carry my luggage, I quickly take in the neighborhood once again before something catches my attention, making me stop in my tracks.

A police car was parked across the street from the house.

"Now how in the hell did you miss that Cree!" My subconscious exclaimed.

Confused, I turn to my mother, giving her a questioning look. Only for her to return my confused gaze with one of her signature smiles before stepping onto the brick pathway and walking away from me, with my suitcase wheeling behind her and my duffle bag slung over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Once she is a few steps ahead, she calls out to me with a smile in her voice from over her shoulder, "You going to stand there all day piglet, or are you going to come in the house."