She awoke in the darkness, the only light flowing in from the moonlit sky. The itchiness of the sheets tickled her skin. She shot up to a sitting position, wondering where she might be. Nothing was familiar, nothing was recognizable. The scent of mothballs lingered, the manufactured vanilla scent fighting to overcome it. The smell did not trigger anything, no memories or feelings. She rose from the bed, letting her feet mindlessly wander to the window, to the tattered rags of curtains that hung there.
Outside was dark, save for the moonlight, it was heavily wooded- no sign of life. She turned from the glass portal, her feet causing the aged wood to creek in protest. The walls of the room were crumbling revealing the rusty plumbing, and unsafe wiring. The furniture was simple. An antique dresser sat leaning in the corner, three out of four drawers missing. There was a dirty mattress thrown on the floor, coarse brown sheets covering it’s surface.
The woman wandered from the room, to find an equally distressed hallway. The upstairs of the house was small, holding only a bedroom and bath. The bathroom unlike the rest, was newer and in working order. The clawfoot tub rested upon rusted but sturdy legs, the single sink upon a stained porcelain pedestal. She walked towards the sink, taking in her appearance in the cracked mirror. She recognized herself, her ratty brown hair and painfully sad blue eyes. Her skin was ashen white, small dull freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Her lips were rosy, offsetting her pasty complexion. She turned quickly from the mirror, memories flooding her brain.
The pain, the grief, all of it came rushing back in. She fought the tears that threatened to escape and instead turned her attention towards the house, the place she was in. Each step she took down the stairs caused a groan from within the house, as if asking her not to cause any more damage. The house was her and in a way she was the house. Both were in disrepair, both aching for the wind to sweep them away.
Downstairs was empty void of any sign of life, except the kitchen. Although aged, it held the necessary components. The oak cabinets were threatening to fall off their hinges, the fridge door rusted, the oven missing the door. A single table sat in the middle, a sliver of ripped paper sat dead center beckoning for her to read it.
She approached it timidly, unsure of what she would find written on it. Her hands shook as she lifted it from the table, her eyes avoiding the words and instead finding solace in the peeling vinyl flooring. After what had felt like hours she ordered her eyes up, to read the mysterious note. The paper seemed to have been ripped from an old phone book, the edges yellowing and the numbers printed on it were fading. The handwritten note was clear though, as if freshly written. The black ink was scrawled carefully across the page.
“You wanted this, to forget. But now it’s time to come back.”
These simple words evoked her. They sprung her into action. She dropped the paper, and like a feather it made it’s way onto the floor. And before it even reached the cracked vinyl she was out, her feet carrying her as fast as they could into the forest. The house sat as it was, the back door wide open as she had left it. The lone paper sitting next to the table, the sheets still amiss from her slumber, the few dusty footprints- the only signs there had been life. But as she ran, the life faded and once again the house returned to it’s faded, abandoned state.
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A/N: I just started writing, and this is what came to me. I'm thinking it might be a cool start to a new story? Let me know your thoughts, I love hearing feedback :)
Thanks, K
