Categories > Original > Drama
There’s nothing here. There’s nothing left. The thoughts flood through her brain as she walks through the old house. Sure enough the furniture was gone, most of it anyway, all that remained was her reading chair, a select few shelves and the kitchen cabinets. The curtains were torn down or hanging threadbare to the point of being translucent on their dusty rails. The carpets were rotted away due to the persistent damp that no one had been rectifying in their departure from the place.
Walking up the stairs, which creak of course, she feels a wave of doubt wash over her like the sudden dizziness you may feel when standing up too quickly or witnessing something horrible. Did she really want to do this? It had been so long. Did she really want to see what he had left there? Did she really want to know how he had left things? Still she walks forward and climbs the stairs, turning to her right as she reaches the top and walking to the end of the hallway. A wooden door coated in pealing white paint is pushed aside and she walks back into the room that used to be theirs.
It’s a startling contrast to the other rooms. The furniture is still there and the floor, though dusty, is still intact due to their previous decision to have a wooden floor in their bedroom rather than scratty carpet. The drapes are still hanging over the bed, the reds have faded to pinks but they’re still there. The thick curtains are still hanging and do more of a job of blocking out the sunlight than those remaining downstairs.
Walking slowly across the floor, her footsteps muffled by the dust, she crosses to the large dresser underneath the window. She remembers sitting here and writing all those years ago. When she still had dreams, when she still believed she could make something of herself. She would watch him out in the garden doing whatever he would do and it would inspire her in so many ways he wouldn’t believe. Her stool was still sat there, tucked under the desk and some of her things were still littered the back of the wooden table. Ink and pens mixed with hair clips and her less loved items of jewellery, the ones she hadn’t packed when she had left so suddenly.
“I miss you sometimes you know… I know you would never believe me now but I do. I still dream about you, you still inspire me…” The empty room shows no evidence it had heard her words but she felt better for having said them. Taking one last sweeping look at the room she turns to leave, already saying a mental goodbye to the house and everything that it had stood for; independence; love; security. The wardrobe however catches her eye and she reaches her hand out automatically. Unsure of what to expect but going ahead all the same. The door opens with a tug and her hazel eyes take in what she sees there- nothing.
His clothes, her clothes, his guitar, her shoes and the hat she’d brought for his sister’s wedding. Her wedding dress. She thinks of what he may have done with it all. Kept all his clothes probably and definitely kept the guitar. Could he still have her things? The wedding dress surely would be an ideal thing to remember her by, but why does she always assume he would want to remember her? He probably hates her, she thinks now, not for the first time. He probably burnt it all, or gave it away to a charity shop. She probably walked past it in the street a week after she left and never thought twice about it.
Shaking her head she leaves the room and then soon after leaves the house. She doesn’t lock the door, it had been standing derelict for years, she may as well leave it open for a poor homeless man to sleep in if they wanted to. Memories flood her head as she drives back to her new home. A small flat made for one. She turns on the radio and sings along, trying to distract herself from the past she had run from all those years ago.
Maybe she should track him down, find out where he is, find out what went wrong, why he took up and left. Maybe she could help him to sort out whatever had happened. Maybe they could be friends.
She turns the radio off and walks towards her flat. Thoughts of him stop again as she returns to her life. They wouldn’t be friends and she wouldn’t find him. She left for a reason. She wouldn’t go back.
Walking up the stairs, which creak of course, she feels a wave of doubt wash over her like the sudden dizziness you may feel when standing up too quickly or witnessing something horrible. Did she really want to do this? It had been so long. Did she really want to see what he had left there? Did she really want to know how he had left things? Still she walks forward and climbs the stairs, turning to her right as she reaches the top and walking to the end of the hallway. A wooden door coated in pealing white paint is pushed aside and she walks back into the room that used to be theirs.
It’s a startling contrast to the other rooms. The furniture is still there and the floor, though dusty, is still intact due to their previous decision to have a wooden floor in their bedroom rather than scratty carpet. The drapes are still hanging over the bed, the reds have faded to pinks but they’re still there. The thick curtains are still hanging and do more of a job of blocking out the sunlight than those remaining downstairs.
Walking slowly across the floor, her footsteps muffled by the dust, she crosses to the large dresser underneath the window. She remembers sitting here and writing all those years ago. When she still had dreams, when she still believed she could make something of herself. She would watch him out in the garden doing whatever he would do and it would inspire her in so many ways he wouldn’t believe. Her stool was still sat there, tucked under the desk and some of her things were still littered the back of the wooden table. Ink and pens mixed with hair clips and her less loved items of jewellery, the ones she hadn’t packed when she had left so suddenly.
“I miss you sometimes you know… I know you would never believe me now but I do. I still dream about you, you still inspire me…” The empty room shows no evidence it had heard her words but she felt better for having said them. Taking one last sweeping look at the room she turns to leave, already saying a mental goodbye to the house and everything that it had stood for; independence; love; security. The wardrobe however catches her eye and she reaches her hand out automatically. Unsure of what to expect but going ahead all the same. The door opens with a tug and her hazel eyes take in what she sees there- nothing.
His clothes, her clothes, his guitar, her shoes and the hat she’d brought for his sister’s wedding. Her wedding dress. She thinks of what he may have done with it all. Kept all his clothes probably and definitely kept the guitar. Could he still have her things? The wedding dress surely would be an ideal thing to remember her by, but why does she always assume he would want to remember her? He probably hates her, she thinks now, not for the first time. He probably burnt it all, or gave it away to a charity shop. She probably walked past it in the street a week after she left and never thought twice about it.
Shaking her head she leaves the room and then soon after leaves the house. She doesn’t lock the door, it had been standing derelict for years, she may as well leave it open for a poor homeless man to sleep in if they wanted to. Memories flood her head as she drives back to her new home. A small flat made for one. She turns on the radio and sings along, trying to distract herself from the past she had run from all those years ago.
Maybe she should track him down, find out where he is, find out what went wrong, why he took up and left. Maybe she could help him to sort out whatever had happened. Maybe they could be friends.
She turns the radio off and walks towards her flat. Thoughts of him stop again as she returns to her life. They wouldn’t be friends and she wouldn’t find him. She left for a reason. She wouldn’t go back.
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