The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


29. Brick House

Across the road stood a crumbling brick house that was called home to no one.

Every night a group of people, probably no older than twenty, but older than fifteen, stood on the neglected grass of the house’s yard.

The sides of this brick house were dusted, or almost ashy looking, as if it had be scathed.

The windows were boarded up, although teeny-tiny cracks started forming in the surface of the thin wood.

The people all stood closely together, staring intently, as if they might be in a reverie.

As we stood looking out across the road one night, waiting for those people to come at 1:00 A.M., they never did.

The same occurrence happened three consecutive nights when finally, I walked up to the lawn of the brick house.

The air, crisp from the fall season, smelled of lingering ash.

I looked more intently at the house, not excluding any detail.

The door to the house was painted perhaps a cheery red colour, but now its edges were peeling and burnt to a black crisp.

The garage door was dented outward, as if it might have been kicked from the inside, numerous times.

Even the concrete walkway was a dark brown colour that held remnants of ash between its cracks.

Just then is when I realised how sad that house was, and who those people were.


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