Home Sweet Home -- 767 words

There is a girl walking through the yard.

Crisp autumn leaves are broken beneath her shoes as she paces back and forth. She’s been walking for hours, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I can’t see her face from the window, so I turn away and forget about her.

There’s a woman in the mirror. She has beautiful green eyes, but the rest of her face is gone. She has emerald eyes, that kings would fight for. I fancy myself a king, and decide to wander about my castle.

The servants have forgotten to water the plants. Sitting along either side of the hallway, they droop low, bowing to their king. They are brown and black and dying. I think the woman in the mirror stole the green and dropped the color into her eyes.

I walk down the stairs, and run my hand along the black banister. It is made of the night stuff, sucking all light into its metal. It is cold and I cannot avoid looking at it. It is beautiful, in the same way that the winter is beautiful: because nothing moves. In that way, dead people can be considered beautiful.

I arrive in the foyer, but the only fanfare is the sound of my feet hitting the tile. I think of my mother and father, dancing along this very tile. He taught her how to waltz; she taught him how to garden. She took him into the backyard one day, and they did not return. Later, I discovered that they had been gardened themselves--planted in the ground like carrot seeds. You become what you love, I suppose.

Turning my head to the left, I see that there is a wolf in my living room. He is sleeping and does not bother me, but I remember the night he nearly killed an intruder. Beasts are only good when they’re on your side, and in between waking and dreaming, I do not trust the minds of beasts.

I turn my head to the right. I have two options. Good or bad. Alive or dead. Night or day. I could go into the kitchen, or find my way to the basement. I think it over, as the girl in the backyard walks back and forth and back and forth.

There is a specter in my basement. I’ve seen it before. I haven’t gone in the basement for a very long time, but it has never said its goodbyes to the host, so I must assume that it still lingers. The phantom sways on the steps, looking up at the door. It is always there; always waiting for someone to come and give it light. It takes the light and shoves it into its glassy, grey, blind eyes. I do not like when it does this, for then it opens its horrid mouth, all filled with jagged pencil-teeth and needles.

There is a rattling in the kitchen. Perhaps the specter has moved. Perhaps it waits for me in the corner between the fridge and the sink counter, blending it with the gloom. I do not wish to see its pale eyes, for they always remind me of souls: one for my mother and one for my father. Perhaps they decomposed together, came together as one, and climbed from the beneath the earth to find me.

Perhaps they want me to make them dinner. But alas, I cannot cook. Kings do not cook.

I decide to go out into the backyard. I shut the door behind me as gently as I can, yet the screen still slams against the siding. The noise wakes the beast. It frees the specter from the basement. It gives the woman in the mirror courage enough to peek out from her glassy prison. They all gather in my room and stare at me from the bedroom window.

The little girl is still walking back and forth. She hangs her head low, allowing her hair to hide her face. I think I shall never see it, but I am alright with that. There are plenty of faces one should not see.

The face of a woman mourning, her veil pulled over her features.

The face of one who does not love you anymore.

The face of God.

I walk side by side with the girl, and she does not protest. I match my stride to hers. She has a bit of a lead on me, but the day is still young. We will walk alongside each other for hours, back and forth and back forth, creating ruts like garden rows.