1One Last Hand to the Window
I tentatively push the old wooden door open and hear the moan of the hinges and the gradual screech as it swings forward slowly. It stops; wide open, displaying the dusty hallway stuck ten years in the past.
The deep red carpet is old and worn, and reminds me of the horrors of what happened upstairs. The dirty cream walls still display our primitive crayon drawings. I step in and study our stick people, with their bright smiling faces. I remember us, when we had bright smiling faces. That was before we learnt about the realities of life.
A small wooden table still sits in the corner adorned with its faded piece of royal blue cloth. The telephone sits on the cloth, off the hook, the wire unplugged. I step closer, my steps imprinting the thick dust, and study the minute handwriting of people's names and numbers.
I turn the first door handle that I reach and coax the door open. Only a dusty, pokey living room with old-fashioned furniture to anyone else; I see it like it was back then – clean, fresh, homely – I see it from the happy height of a three year old.
I pass the next room, the dining room, and take the next door instead. The kitchen is bright compared with the rest of the house. The uncurtained window-doors allow the light to flood in, illuminating the bland white units with their cheap brown plastic handles. Four plates of rotten, mouldy leftovers lay on the speckled worktop waiting to be washed up. The sink is still full of dirty water, the scrunched up tea towel hangs on the oven door.
I cross the room and stand by the window-doors that lead to the garden. Remembering, I put my hand up to the cool glass, not noticing the dusty coating, and slip back through time.
I smile at the boy on the other side of the glass, getting caught up in his cheeky grin as we put our hands on either side of the glass. I am shorter than you, and my hands are smaller.
That was the last time I saw you, smiling at me through the glass – I lost you after that.
For a fleeting moment I see a teenage you, hand against the glass, grinning that grin at me like always. Feeling stupid, I turn away and leave the kitchen.
Before I venture upstairs I gather all my courage. I know the horror of what I'll see, but I have to see it. Somehow I need to.
As I climb the stairs I brush my dusty hand off on my jeans and am careful not to touch the banister. The stairs groan and my shoes sink into the dusty red carpet as I climb. I round the corner, trying to ignore the rank staleness of the air and how death seems to hover. Four steps and I am there.
There are three doors. The first two will be much like the living room – homely, happy – the rooms where we slept so peacefully; until that horrific night.
And so I walk to the third room, the last room, take a deep breath and push the door open.
Blood splashes the light blue walls, great patches of dark brown alienating the calm blue. The sheets of the double bed are caked in dark brown and it is impossible to tell that they were once brilliant white. They stay stone still, set into the creased, scrunched position by the dried blood that saturates them.
The pale purple carpet and various personal items that lay scattered across it are splattered with blood. It looks as though nothing escaped the bloodbath.
Desperate, bloody scratches from someone's hands cover the back of the door. Small bits of paints and wood have flaked and splintered off, but, other than that, the scratching seems to have been in vain.
The closet door is already open, saving me from having to walk across the blood splattered carpet. I stare at the inside of the cupboard for a while, remembering our mum hiding me inside, remembering her telling me to stay there no matter what, remembering the terrible screams as our father slaughtered her.
I carefully place the white lily that I am holding onto the blood-set sheets. It doesn't fit the room – it contrasts. Hopefully the rest of my life will contrast with its bloody beginnings.
I turn and clatter down the stairs, causing the dust to rise beneath me in mini storms. I go to the kitchen and raise my hand to the glass one last time, then I turn and walk through the hallway.
I step out of the front door and leave my past to rest.
A/N: Just a one-shot (probably), but I wasn't quite sure which category to put it in. I put it in spiritual because of the reminiscing and confronting the past to feel at peace with the soul, but it's sort of horror as well. Anyway, please review and tell me what you think! Thanks!