THE HOUSE OF MEMORIES

When I first walked into that house. It was full of life and new beginnings. But now, over a decade later, it is full of death and scars. I walked into that house at the age of ten, believing in a new beginning that was bright and better. Sadly, what happened shortly after started a decade of more pain and sadness. My father almost died, and my mom’s father died. That year is foggy. It was full of sadness and silence. I tried to bring life to it by making people laugh or smile. But in the end, I was disappointed. The years to come were a fog of ups and downs. Chaos here and there, lost in the walls. Now I sit in my bedroom, and I have attempted to cover the scars. But under the layers of paint are the sadness and loneliness of a girl who had the family curse.

My father, in the room next to me, is covered in wrinkles, scars, and gray hairs. My mother lies in the room across the hall like a vegetable. She reeks of death. I can feel the death in that room. I see death hovering over her, waiting. My sister is down in the basement, continuing her path to proving her success in this family. The other sister sits across, ready to join this pit of memories. My husband and I sit in this room, waiting for the chance to escape this place and never look back. Someday, I will pack up all my things and shut that red front door one last time. I will say farewell to my family and go on to better things.