Den of DespairMature

A short piece I wrote during a dark time in my life.

Why do people look at me?

What do they think they see?


I see a house, a building with an appealing façade, inviting. My smiles are the flowers that bloom in the garden, sun flowers with large sunny faces. The sun flowers don’t know that their time is short, that they will bloom only once.

 The front door, like my heart, is always open offering shelter, masquerading as a safe place. Many cross the threshold into the house unprepared for what they will find. For inside it is dark and gloomy, every space has been damaged by the people who have lived there.

 An endless hallway is lined with doors; behind each is a room full of nightmares. A child’s room, painted red. The only furniture is my bed. It hasn’t been slept in for a long time. The bedding is stained with blood and urine. My childhood self has long since been abandoned. My childish toys discarded to the corner, broken and dejected.

 Next is the room where I spent my teenage years, no rock star posters here. The walls cry in pain from the impact of beatings. Blackened by burns they scream for help. The dressing table is strewn with, not makeup, but cigarette lighters, scalpel blades and needles. The waste paper basket overflows with chocolate and ice cream wrappers from the last food orgy.

 At the end of the hallway is the largest room. This is the most confusing room of all. The wallpaper has flowers on it but their petals are torn and bleeding. The blood is like acid, eating away at the stability of the house, collecting in large pools, overflowing and drowning any rays of sunshine that might creep through the cracks. Slowly but surely the house undermines itself.

There is no life in the house. Not even spiders or cockroaches will live in this den of despair, but the sun flowers continue to bloom outside!

The End

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