Sometimes, even in dire situations, a mind can never fully comprehend what is in front of it. People race to a place at four in the morning, where police cars hide in the shadows and houses that once held light are now dim. The chances that someone is waiting are high. Waiting and watching, because this house is like no other. This is the house where people do not bother pulling on their shoes to run because they know that what is in front of them needs to be taken. They run because they want to.
No, they need to.
The idea of running away is so irresistible when a heart is heavy and a head feels light.
They both run to this house that has been ragged and torn from memories past. A once sunshine yellow house, is now turned to an eggshell color shack, cracking and peeling from what pain the weather and humanity has inflicted upon it. The doorknob feels cold and has the color of a faded copper penny, but what stands out is spine chilling symphony that the door it is connected to plays when opened; a mixture of squeaks and screeching fill their ears. The floor continues to add notes below their feet, creating a creaking melody like no other that could fall apart with a stomp of a foot. One walks in with ease while the other runs in, looking for a reminder that this is all real. Another walks out.
“I hope their stay here is not wasted,” he said to himself, as he walked away from the house looking relaxed.
The first room that one walks into is a bedroom. Her forest green eyes widen as she takes in the sights around her. She wonders to herself, “Are there any memories in these four walls?” She touches the crumbling pink floral wallpaper and looks at the now rusted and bent metal frame of the king-sized bed. Spider webs cling to the corners of the wall for life and knit their way back to the metal frame of the bed, creating a canopy bed that is from a horror fanatic’s dream. The dresser in the corner is missing the top right drawer and the rest of the drawers have chipped away to where it looks like someone wanted to carve their own pieces of art into the front of it. The windows have blurred over with stains from floods and the curtains now have dust and other particles woven into its existence. Smells of old books and burning wood fill the air. She walks further into the room and wipes some of the grime off the window, only to see a ray of golden morning light begin to peek through.
The other person ran throughout the house, trying to find a path worthy of stopping him. He stopped when he reached a garden. The garden was filled with vines, which wrapped and stretched its way to an almost destroyed gazebo, becoming a part of its foundation. The dirt on the ground, now dried and unusable, clung to rusted garden tools that laid on the edge of a small box that was labeled “compost.” When he looked inside of the box, it was filled with old wood chips that have fallen off of the house and gazebo. Trees hung and swayed above, almost as though they wanted to intimidate those who walk below. They held many different animals in its hanging branches, which have now claimed this place as home. He looks over and sees a bench that does not seem completely deteriorated. Its white paint was chipped, yes, but it looked only a few years old, as the rest of the house looked as though it was centuries old.
He thinks to himself, “That is strange,” as the rest of the garden looks like it’s at the end of its lifeline.
As strange as it was, he felt attracted to it. He sits down and closes his eyes for just a minute, to remember why he came here and why he wanted to discover something so badly. It felt as though clouds were forming in his head as he thought about the past. He wanted a future so badly but did not think about how his actions affected his hopes and his dreams. Sparks form in the clouds and feelings began to rise to the surface of the body; the feeling was so contagious that a simple touch of his skin would have been enough to understand his feeling.
He opens his eyes. Small lights begin to swirl around the dawn sky, creating a new work of art in itself. The small off-white lights swirl into the navy-blue sky, which then grazed into the orange-purple ombre of the sunrise to the east. Nature begins to come to life and so does his heart once more.
The harrowed wounds begin to heal and they start to walk. The girl who first walked, ran into the living room. She wrestled with the dream of someone else’s sentiment for so long that she finally realized that she was lost in the path that she created herself. Her eyes are bright and her path has finally been cleared. The bedroom has cleared and has shed away the spider webs and dust; these have been replaced with silks and satins that drape off the walls. The boy that ran into the house began to walk to the living room. He struggled with the idea that positivity was key for so long, that he forgot to embrace the echoed themes of melancholy and nostalgia. The garden’s vines slithered back into the ground like snakes in the winter, and the gazebo took a deep breath and restored its beauty and grace with a white sheen that even the stars that loom above could see. He finally learned that the bittersweet themes in life are just as important as the lovely ones.
They both ran out into the front yard, feeling exhausted yet peaceful as they have finally accomplished something that they never thought that they could. They can finally live with themselves and not for others.
They both make eye contact.
“Hello,” said the boy.
“Hello,” said the girl.
This is the only form of fiction that I have written and am also proud of. I hope you guys enjoyed.