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This Old House
# WritcoStoryChallenge
The old house stood dilapidated and full of memories.
I shoved my bare hands deep into my trouser pockets. The cool autumn breeze had turned colder and I chastised myself for not wearing a sweater. I knew I was coming here today, out in the elements, why hadn't I worn a warmer outfit?
The driveway was a zigzag of cracks and dotted with dried bird poop and ancient oil stains where Daddy used to work on that darned lime green pickup truck.
Oh, Daddy.
He would be so disappointed if he could see the overgrowth of grass in the yard. He had been so meticulous when it came to his lawn. It needed a good mowing and edging. The bushes were running a muck and the trees had grown way too close to the roof. Daddy would have never allowed that to happen.
Long, rectangular windows in the front, Momma and Daddy's bedroom, looked like big, sad, crying eyes. I knew how they felt. Momma had shed many a tear in that room. She thought none of us kids knew, but we did.
The heavy, wooden, turquoise-colored door was faded and peeling, hanging haphazardly on one hinge. It creaked out an ominous cry as I stepped inside.
To the left stood a coat closet. Empty now save a few wire coat hangers. The living room was devoid of furniture only to be replaced by a plethora of dusty cobwebs. I looked down at the crunchy, outdated, golden-yellow shag carpet beneath my feet. Yuck. I had always hated that carpet, even as a kid. And there was the orange spot where my older sister Abigail tried to scrub up the paint she had spilled. Momma was horrified. I felt a smile play across my lips.
Down the hall, my little brother Benji's room was on the right. His ceiling was pooched inward, like it may burst open at any moment. Water damage was evident. A solitary, threadbare rug lay in the center of the room. Lonely. Forlorn. A quiet yet impactful statement. Funny how that simple rug seemed to describe him. A young boy gone too soon. Drugs just cannot combat bullies.
Abigail and Charlene's room, also on the right, was at the end of the hallway. I used to stay awake at night listening to them talk and giggle about boys. And I...
The old house stood dilapidated and full of memories.
I shoved my bare hands deep into my trouser pockets. The cool autumn breeze had turned colder and I chastised myself for not wearing a sweater. I knew I was coming here today, out in the elements, why hadn't I worn a warmer outfit?
The driveway was a zigzag of cracks and dotted with dried bird poop and ancient oil stains where Daddy used to work on that darned lime green pickup truck.
Oh, Daddy.
He would be so disappointed if he could see the overgrowth of grass in the yard. He had been so meticulous when it came to his lawn. It needed a good mowing and edging. The bushes were running a muck and the trees had grown way too close to the roof. Daddy would have never allowed that to happen.
Long, rectangular windows in the front, Momma and Daddy's bedroom, looked like big, sad, crying eyes. I knew how they felt. Momma had shed many a tear in that room. She thought none of us kids knew, but we did.
The heavy, wooden, turquoise-colored door was faded and peeling, hanging haphazardly on one hinge. It creaked out an ominous cry as I stepped inside.
To the left stood a coat closet. Empty now save a few wire coat hangers. The living room was devoid of furniture only to be replaced by a plethora of dusty cobwebs. I looked down at the crunchy, outdated, golden-yellow shag carpet beneath my feet. Yuck. I had always hated that carpet, even as a kid. And there was the orange spot where my older sister Abigail tried to scrub up the paint she had spilled. Momma was horrified. I felt a smile play across my lips.
Down the hall, my little brother Benji's room was on the right. His ceiling was pooched inward, like it may burst open at any moment. Water damage was evident. A solitary, threadbare rug lay in the center of the room. Lonely. Forlorn. A quiet yet impactful statement. Funny how that simple rug seemed to describe him. A young boy gone too soon. Drugs just cannot combat bullies.
Abigail and Charlene's room, also on the right, was at the end of the hallway. I used to stay awake at night listening to them talk and giggle about boys. And I...
