The walls began to crack open, rotting and peeling away. The paint seemed to turn into skin, rolling back to expose a putrid and decaying wall underneath. The cracks got even bigger, spiderwebbing across the house. And some of the cracks were an abysmal black while others were an eerie red, as if the house itself was bleeding. In fact, blood actually did begin to seep out of the walls of the house, running down the peeling paint to stain the hardwood floors. Then cracks began to appear across the floor as well, snaking all around the house.
Then the furniture began to break and the appliances began to malfunction. Lights flickered and sparked, half of them on and half of them off. Water pipes burst wide open, but the water quickly turned dark and rotten. It stank, reeking of death and decay. Vile and putrid water riddled with contamination flooded from the pipes and quickly began to overflow the sinks, toilets and baths. The water then began to mix with the blood.
Suddenly, the fridge doors burst open. All the food inside was spoiled rotten, crawling with worms, maggots, flies, spiders and other insects. And the shelves were coated in slime, the food molding where it touched the shelf as it was slowly devoured by the insects. The cupboard was barren too, shelves falling apart inside even though there was nothing on them. There was no unspoiled food anywhere…
The countertops cracked with thunderous gusto. Black lines crisscrossed overhead on the ceiling, causing more material to come raining down from above. It was only ceiling material, but as it continued to flake down, it turned into cinders and ash, coating the floor in a fine powder that smelled vaguely of something burning.
In the distance, a few seconds later, the TV flickered to life. It blared disturbing and horrific images of murder, torture, rape, suicide, despair and condemnation. Faces flashed on screen faster and faster, screaming and swearing at the house's owner, cursing his name and demanding his blood for his sins. They pointed damningly at him as everything else flashed on the screen behind them. Anger and hatred, that was all that was on the screen. Damnation and accusation. It did not matter what button was pressed, the TV would not turn off. The graphic imagery was endless.
Upstairs in the bedroom, all the clothes in his closet morphed into nooses, tied and ready. The bathroom faucets were pouring blood. Pill bottles rattled in their cabinets, some of those cabinets bursting open in an explosion of pills and ash. Tiles shattered and broke, falling clean off the wall to reveal the stones underneath.
Back in the bedroom, pants tightened, and shirts morphed into straightjackets. Shoes were suddenly full of holes and underwear became stained with all sorts of disgusting colors. Suddenly, everything was tattered, torn and ugly. All the clothing that used to be so gorgeous and trendy had become ugly, old and plain, like off-gray nightgowns that only someone in a psych ward from a century ago would wear. There was a giant hole in the center of the bed where a man and his lover might've once slept and embraced, but the hole was so large and hollow that it was impossible to find any rest, whether as a couple or individual.
Back down in the kitchen, the stove and oven began to smoke, but nothing burned. The knife block oozed blood. The spare drawer did likewise. The stairs became crooked, broken, unbalanced and splintered. They twisted apart and fragmented, impossible to use without cutting someone's feet. The wood chipped as the stairs continued to fall into vast disrepair.
Then outside, fences became bars and steel became iron. The tips of the bars suddenly grew much higher and were sharpened into deadly spikes. All along the way, grass and plants withered and died. Flowers lost their color before shriveling up. Grass turned brittle and cracked away. Fog from outside flooded the house, thick and heavy with despair. It was like being trapped in a swarm of ghosts and it was impossible to breathe.
The entire house seemed to come alive in its grief, a great and roaring beast of pain and suffering. The very foundation howled, mourned and cried out in agony. The house moaned and groaned just like its owner. It twisted, shook, shuddered and bellowed as its foundation grew unstable and crumbled. Support beams finally cracked. Walls finally caved.
Everywhere the owner treaded, holes opened under his feet and began to bleed black. Everything he touched decayed into ooze. He left destruction in his wake, but he was so lost and hazy in his grief he didn't even notice a thing. Even as his house literally crashed down around him, he noticed nothing. He was left unscathed, for better or worse.
He was haggard, thin, sick, tired and gangly. He was wild, dirty, ratty, unshaven, misshapen, broken and uneven. Red eyes, crooked nose, messy hair, ratty beard, rife with oil. Dry, scarred skin. Bleeding. Bruising. Breaking. Crying. Ingrown nails, tattered clothes, limping, splintered. Then he collapsed with a howl of grief and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried and cried, louder and longer even than the destruction of the house and the TV still blaring damning accusations and horrific imagery.
It faded away into haunting static before he stopped crying. It was the prison of his mind. The mind was his house. When the mind was in disrepair, so too was the house. Now he was trapped in a dying world, his house and his mind. They were both coming undone.
But come morning, as the first light of dawn peeked through the cracked (but not broken) glass windows, the rays of warmth cleansed and repaired all that they touched. The cracks healed. The blood flow reversed. The rust and decay did likewise. Things rose up again, no longer wilted, twisted or crooked. The uneven became smooth and the broken became fixed. Food filled the cabinets again, fresh and wholesome. The lights turned off, but there was a secret reassurance that they would come back on whenever the master of the house desired. It was peaceful and quiet.
The nooses unwound themselves back into clothing. The pills returned to their bottles and the bottles to their cabinets. Poison labels switched back to medicinal lists. The toilets were fresh, clean and empty again. So was the tub. No blood, just water. It was all sterile. The bed was whole and soft again, the sheets smooth. The clothing was fashionable and complete, no more discomfort or disrepair.
No more blood, dirt or scum. Not on the tables, floors, counters, utensils or living rooms. Carpets and couches were whole again and the TV was no longer broken, bent or malfunctioning. It played a pleasant morning newscast about the sunny weather outside. Happy faces, happy reporters. Bright screens, bright sun. No more graphic imagery or static, just a pleasant weather report. The furniture was fixed and clean once more.
And him? He was happy again. Not fully recovered, but peaceful. No more blood or ragged weariness. Clean, smooth, bright skin and hair. Kempt, controlled, relaxed, easy. Upright, straight, self-sufficient and dry-eyed. He sauntered into the kitchen and poured himself a warm, fresh, sweet brew. White steam curled around his face with a lovely aroma. He peeked out the restored windows past the solidified walls and supports.
The pictures weren't moving anymore, the clock had the correct time, all the appliances was functional. It was so bright, sweet, merry and paradisiacal. Warm golden glow. Peaceful white smile. No more wilting or crying. No more hopelessness or fog, just clarity and morning dew, cool, crisp and refreshing. Not stifling, smoggy or hot. It ghosted through the clean windows past the refurbished floors and walls, bright and gilded. The paint was fresh and bright. Floors smooth, walls unbroken, he could move freely and safely wherever he pleased. The house was his again.
It did not bow to him like a slave, but worked with and accommodated him like a friend. No more disagreement or discord, just unity and harmony again. It did not strike him or rise up against him or slip out of his control. It worked at his side to protect and fill him with life once more. He was happy and he was home and he was healing. The house and mind were, once more, right and aligned. The mind was a home and when the mind worked, so too did the home.
AN: Just wanted to try a story where someone's house reflects their mood