The House

I used to be a splendid house, you know?

A “For Sale” sign has been planted in my front lawn for a decade now.
Planted in a weed-ridden, but still lavishly green, lawn that would be cut every two months.

Every time that I am conscious, that sign would be the first thing I see.

Then, I would see Mrs. Robinson slowly walking past with her cane in a shaky, arthritic hand – she’ll stop, look at me, shake her head and mumble “What a shame” before continuing past me.

Then, I would see the Bergstrom twins and their friends Anash and Amara playing soccer in the street – one of them (usually the twins) will accidentally kick the ball into my lawn, and then (after playing Rock, Paper, Scissors) one will reluctantly retrieve the ball with fear plastered on his face when he looks upon me.
“Watch out! Don’t let the Butcher catch you!” Amara would usually exclaim before laughing when her friend sprints to safety.

Then, the scared whispers and glances of fear and distain would follow throughout the day.

I used to be a quaint house: a grey, Victorian-style house that was a hundred and thirty years young.
I’ve held the fond memories of my creator and his family and numerous families after – births and birthdays, weddings, holidays, Sunday dinners, piano lessons and jazz sessions, drawings on the wall, carvings in the stairs, and more. I barely survived through two wars and a fire, but after a little bit of scrubbing and paint, I was as good as new and forever thankful to the seventh family for their kindness.

All of the families were kind, except one.
All of the memories were joyous, except some.

I used to be a wondrous house, until the father of the last family that called me Home had stained his memory within me.

The Anderssons were a wonderful family from Sweden: Kristoffer – a strong father, Eva – a loving mother, Emil and Finn – two well-mannered boys.

The first year was pleasant, filled with fishing trips, science projects, apple pies, and “Clair de Lune” being played on the grand piano every Saturday morning.
The second year was a drastic change of tone, filled with arguments, drunken delusions, bruises and broken bones, and tense silence.

Eva stopped playing “Clair de Lune”, there were no more fishing trips or apple pies, and Finn didn’t come out of his room for his seventh birthday.

I was uncomfortable. I have never dealt with such a situation as this. I’ve never felt such anger and depression within a family before, and it was unnerving.

I wanted to help. I wanted to attempt something. I wanted to rid myself of that dark air that was contained inside me.
But there’s only so much a stationary object such as myself could do.

So, I remained uncomfortable as my outer appearance withered with chipped paint and loose shutters and wood boards, while my insides were ridden with empty bottles, medications, tears, and dust-covered furniture for six months.

However, there was a moment when everything seemed to move towards the way it was before.

Kristoffer tenderly kissed his wife good morning and good night every day, never sparing an “I love you” afterwards, the apple pies reappeared – not at their best, but it was a start – and Emil happily celebrated his eleventh birthday by flying paper planes in the yard with Finn.

I felt like I could breathe again as the furniture was dusted and rearranged, my beautiful grey was restored and the loose boards and shutters were patched up, and I was free of empty bottles and medications.

The bruises were gone. The bones were healed. The tears were still there, but they were outweighed by the smiles and the cautious laughs.

I was wary, but nevertheless happy for the Anderssons.

Sadly, this period only lasted for four months – a calm before the storm.

As soon as the year came to a close, Kristoffer was fired from his job, coming home, drunk, dejected, and haunted by the signs and chants of “No Immigrants Need Apply”.

The door slammed open.
It was disheartening to see Eva and Emil scramble about the house in fear – they both hid near the stairs, anxiously watching Kristoffer stumble and struggle to pull a beer bottle from the refrigerator.

However, Finn had something else in mind when he approached his father with a drawing – “Best Father in the World” written on top.

I’ve never mentioned how much I adored Finn, have I?
Such a talented, young soul that always decorated the attic with drawings of trees, animals, and his family.

I adored him. His mother and brother adored him.
And I knew that deep inside Kristoffer adored him the most.

Yet, he still snatched the drawing from Finn’s hands and didn’t hesitate to strike Finn with the now-empty beer bottle.

No one moved from their positions, not even when Finn screamed and cried for his mother as he held his hands over a bleeding eye.

The empty bottles, medications, and tears returned two-fold.
Screams replaced the previous silence, and new bruises were given more than the old ones could heal.

The rooms were caked in dust as broken picture frames hung askew on the walls.
My exterior was ridden with chipped paint, missing boards and shutters, and uncut grass as tall as the mailbox.

Slowly and painfully, the conditions grew worse.

Until finally—…

There was only so much a stationary object such as myself could do.

I used to be a remarkable house – a younger Mrs. Robinson watched Kristoffer stumble inside, a foot-long cleaver in hand. She hesitated to call the authorities.

I used to be a lively house – glass shattered as the wife knocked over picture frames in an attempt to escape; one rage-filled hack into the back was enough to paralyze her; she gurgled blood in an attempt to speak her husband’s name, in an attempt to calm him down and to spare their children, in an attempt to tell him how much she loved him. He buried the cleaver into her brain.

I used to be a joyous house – Emil rushed downstairs to investigate his mother’s screams, only to be dragged kicking and screaming back upstairs by his father; he was thrown into his bedroom, squirming and fighting with hands around his throat; there were tears in his eyes as he struggled to take his last breaths; the sound of choking, gurgling, grinding. Kristoffer snapped his first son’s neck with a smile.

I used to be a wondrous house – Poor, poor, Finn was awake the whole time, listening to muffled screaming, hacking, and choking through covered ears as he hid in the attic, crying at what his father had become: a Monster; the slow, heavy, menacing footsteps and the scraping of the bloodied cleaver could be heard coming towards the attic:
“Finn…Papa isn’t going to hurt you…It’s just a game…Come out, Finn…It’s just a game…!”
The hiding spot wasn’t enough as Finn watched his father stand over him, tears pouring from one eye; one more smile as the cleaver was raised into the air. Kristoffer buried the cleaver into his youngest son’s neck repeatedly, until decapitation ensued.

I used to be a quaint house, filled with those fond memories of the families that I’ve come to love.

Now, I am only filled with the memory of those horrid screams of anguish.
Now, I am only marked with the bloodstains that painted the walls and seeped into the floorboards.

Now, those wonderful memories that I’ve acquired for over a century no longer matter to anyone.

Mrs. Robinson stands in front of the lawn next to a man who seems to be a contractor. They converse, she signs a document, and they shake hands with a smile before she walks away.

The man sneers at me before kicking and eventually breaking the “For Sale” sign. He spits on the lawn and walks away.

I used to be a splendid house, you know?