Disembodied Voices

*12:46pm Saturday*

I live on Maldito drive in a far away suburb, with a tiny corner-shop which has been abandoned for a few years now. Never do I forget my desperation to know the history of this place. Who lived here? Why are we the only ones left on the street? Why is everything destroyed? Where did everyone go? Why did they all leave?

I like to go inside the shop and imagine it bustling with locals, all in sync as a connected community. But that's never going to become a reality as no one comes anywhere around here. We don't get visitors and never do salespeople and Jehovahs Witnesses dare come down our street. There's never a strange feeling for me, walking up and down it. To be honest, I find around here to be slightly peaceful. But it's almost as if other people get a bad vibe and tend to 'steer clear' from here.

Rosa says I am not allowed to know the mysterious truth behind our street as it is 'not important for an innocent 16 year old'. It baffles me to why she always gives me that response, to be completely honest, I can't stand it. If we ever get into an argument and I ask why something is the way it is or why something happened, she will always give me that same ignorant response.

I reach the end of my bitumen driveway and turn left to walk up the narrow dirt path. The sharp rocks against my bare feet feels like an inexperienced acrobat walking over broken glass. I weave in and out of dead branches and half fallen trees that look like they have been there for a millennium.

Stupid, where the hell am I going?

I come to an abrupt stop in front of the oldest looking house in the street, apart from ours. With the typical lost door and walls falling down due to infestation, it intrigues me. It almost matches the little church that has been cautiously placed on the block of land over the road. They both have 6 windows, 6 steps and 6 terracotta pots that house dead plants. The pots look almost brand new, with everything else is falling to pieces.

I find comfort here as it is what I imagine my past would be like, falling down but some memories worth remembering. I have no memories left though, it is like someone erased everything that brought a little sense and meaning to my life. Who would do that to me is something that I don't know.

I take a few steps closer to the house and on to its harsh gravel driveway that is unbearable to walk on. I stumble forward and backward a little, almost as if I had lost my balance and I feel as if time lost in an endless portal, never to be regained. Everything spins out of control and it turns my vision to focus on the mailbox to my right.

Amongst all the black paint peeling off of its body, I see my name engraved into its filthy aluminium, Bethany Potter. Something... Someone more like it, taps me on the shoulder.