The
Old House Convention
I stand outside the ruins of the old house,
a place that can no longer be considered a place. It’s shunned appearance
causes blindness in the people that pass it every day. To them, it simply
doesn’t exist anymore. The house’s other siblings, standing proud, loved and
secure on the street beside it, ostracized it long ago and mock with their
unbroken windows, jeer with their happy occupants and bully with their bright
bricks. Alone it not so much stands but stoops as if waiting for time to take
pity and ally with nature to finally sink it into the ground. Its blackened
interior holds more secrets than the pyramids. Its graffited walls displaying
the lives of many souls, of vagrants, of junkies and of thrill seekers in a
diary of destitution. I hear a group of kids behind me and look back to see one
throw a stone, smashing what little glass is left of what were once windows but
are now hollow eyes staring blankly into the world beyond. I walk into the
house as sprinkles of shattered gems fall like tears of sorrow and am greeted
by the wind whispering a lament throughout the gloomy interior.
This
is my home, my sanctuary, a free house that greets you with melancholic open
arms. I slink past used needles deadly in their potential danger. I sail
through an ocean of empty aluminium vessels that once gave the drinkers the
promise of hope, unaware they had left what little hope they had at the door.
My nose flares at the scent of subtle suicide. There is poison in the air and
it is holy in its omnipotence. My cathedral of catharsis cleansing with tired
tragedy as I stop to purify my feet. I walk the steep stairs, a stairway to
heaven or hell? It’s only a matter of shifting perception as my keen senses
soak up midnights mire. I move silently, a ghost in the gloom. The hairs on my
body twitch as I sense the others somewhere above, waiting for me. I pause at
the top and look out into the darkness, a master of all I survey, and in my
reverie I am taken back to another time.
I
was very young when this house had a purer soul, before the accident that had
robbed it of a life worth living. I remember the day it happened. The sun shone
high in the sky, clothing us in blankets of warmth as my brothers and I played
outside. My mother was off doing her daily rounds checking defences and
boundaries. We became hungry after a while and went to the kitchen to see if we
could find something to eat. It was noisy and busy. The scent of a roast
permeated the air as the kitchen staff was hurriedly getting ready for a
celebration. The house was full of people so we had to continuously dodge feet in
case we were stepped on, this game was always accompanied by the angry shouts
from the cooks and waitresses as they in turn avoided tripping over us and
dropping food. This we eventually succeeded in doing and raced away into secret
spaces to devour our bounty. There was no way of knowing how it happened. I
only remember the sickly smell then a flash of an explosion, flames, screams
and pandemonium. My brothers darted in every direction and out of sight. I was
about to run after them when another explosion knocked me unconscious....
I gave a kind of
whimper as the memory faded and I was left on top of the stairs again. A lot of
people died that day, my brothers included, and this house has been a scorched
curse on the earth ever since. My mother was never found and I never left, a
constant caretaker of an endless moment in time. I hear meows and screeches of
my fellow creatures coming from the room behind me and I shake my head. They
are getting restless. I turn and catch a glimpse of my short black fur in a
piece of broken mirror, faintly iridescent in the moonlight. One good eye
reflects back a solitary firefly in the dim light, my whiskers long. I have
chaired these nocturnal gatherings for many years and as I walk into the room I
am greeted with the reverence of a priest. After the gentle butt of heads and
noses a circle of the neighbourhood cats surround me. Let the meeting
begin......
