PANDORA’S BOX; THE TRAPPED MEMORIES

I had finally decided to pay a visit to the abandoned house. As I approached it, I now saw the house more distinctly. It lay under a naked sky. The sun was directly overhead; it was near the summer solstice. It was a rather cool day because it had rained last night.

fifteen feet, fourteen feet, thirteen feet…

Now I could smell the pleasant aroma of the soil–the smell that is released by soil after rain–and it brought back memories. The cherry that I had once planted with love and affection now stood lifelessly on the lawn.

four feet, three feet, two feet…

The door was about inches taller than me. It was right in front of me, the door which once was the kind of blue summer flowers when they are wet with the lightest of rain. I warmly grabbed the doorknob with my sweaty hand; meanwhile, plucking the courage to step into the portal that once was the barrier of happiness, good news, and joy.

The house had a kitchen, a bedroom, and a t.v lounge. It was a small house; however, it was a happy home. As I walked in, I stopped for a second to absorb the surroundings. A vaguely familiar ceiling as grey as slate. Three bulbs tied to three different grey ropes hung from the ceiling, neither of them working. There was a small broken window on the opposite wall to the main door from where shone sunlight. The floorboards squeaking from the pressure of my wellington boots. The single piece of furniture here was a small coffee table sitting mirthlessly in a corner. Its surfaces encrusted in mold and tar. On top sat cigarette butts and unfinished bottles of liquor: ice, whiskey, and beer.

The kitchen had nothing except a stove lying on the floor that felt as if someone had dumped a gallon of glue on it. There was this obnoxious smell of a dead rodent in the kitchen. There was also a window here thick with grime and decorated with cobwebs. I moved out of the kitchen into the bedroom and instantaneously fell in a state of melancholia after seeing my bed just as it had been: perfectly set; with a red velvet bedsheet decorated with polka dots–the darkest hue of crimson. I moved on, to the mirror attached to the wall next to the bed. In it, I saw perfection. I was dressed with consummate elegancy in a knee-length, red, body-con dress. The man next to me in the mirror was my then spouse dashing in a black tuxedo with his gentle hands wrapped around the curves of my torso. I broke off the spell, the hallucination, and in a trice, sprinted to get out before the past engulfed me.

As I took each cautious step, the familiar creaking of the floorboards echoed through the desolate space. But fate had a different plan in store for me that day when one particular board decided to betray me, crackling beneath my weight and ensnaring my unsuspecting foot. Time seemed to slow down as I stumbled forward, my body losing its balance in a sudden jolt.

Reacting swiftly, my instinctual reflexes kicked in, compelling me to yank my foot out of the treacherous trap. With a surge of adrenaline coursing through my veins, I pushed myself forward, determined to escape the confines of the eerie house that held a multitude of memories within its worn floorboards and aged walls.

In that fleeting moment of escape, a glance over my shoulder granted me a glimpse of a macabre sight—a trail of fresh, crimson blood trickling down my scraped knee. The pain was secondary, as my focus remained steadfast on reaching the safety of the outside world.

Within the abandoned abode, where joyous recollections had once thrived, the ghosts of laughter and contentment still lingered, imprinted upon the very essence of its structure. The resilient floorboards and steadfast walls had served as custodians of these cherished moments, offering solace and shelter in their embrace.