House

By Veronika Kremennaya

I know everything about the house that’s somewhere in the middle of the longest street in the world. Many people walk by it, all at different times, but none know it quite like I do. For some infinitesimal amount of time, it was the first house on this street. One day, for the same amount of time, it will be the last.

Its beige walls and dark brown shingles stand strong against the elements, unassuming in the sea of homes. They all stand at various distances away from one another- some have what could barely be called a gutter between them while this one in particular has several meters between it and its neighbors. There’s enough space that the owner went and added a fence all around, so it’s nearly impossible for the kids to see anything of its facade from the sidewalk. You have to find a few lesser-known holes in the fence to peer through, but you’ll never see anything but weeds. The adults can see over the fence, but they choose not to look.

It was a nice house for a while. Pride of the neighborhood, of the one who built it, and their friends. As time went on, a crack formed on the pristine beige exterior. A hairline fracture at first, exacerbated by what felt like frigid rot from the weed roots seeping into the foundation. These veins of imperfection grew the more people noticed them. The cracks spread and spread, eventually becoming spiderwebs of cracked paint across every corner of every wall. Some asshole kids threw bottles over the fence, never caring if they’d ever hit anything. They tended to never hear any response from the weeds catching their bottles, but sometimes a crash would ring out and they’d run far.

“It’s the owner’s fault.”

The owner always built the fence just a little higher after that, repainted it too so it looks nice to all passersby. Eventually, the adults all started saying “What a nice fence” instead of “What a nice house.” They’re both the same color, what does it matter? The owner didn’t know what to do. Everyone liked the fence, that’s all passersby ever look at, so they kept building it higher and higher.

Until finally, even the adults couldn’t see over. That’s fine, they all probably thought, that fence is hiding nothing but weeds and cracked paint and broken bottles and holes. It’s just a house, not a home like every other building on the street. Those adults walked miles up and down the street, they’ve seen so many houses that they’re proper judges. They’ve all seen what goes on behind fences like these, and they all thought they knew where it was headed. If they actually paid attention, they’d have noticed that the holes in the fence were painted over years ago. Hiding the damage was the cheapest option as opposed to fixing it.

But they never stopped talking behind the owner’s back.

“That house is an eyesore, when’s it going to get demolished?”

“Does anyone even take care of that house?”

“I don’t think anyone lives in that house.”

“That house used to look really nice, what happened to it?”

“What kind of house needs a fence this high?”

I don’t remember when it happened, but the owner stopped painting the fence. Weirdly enough, it’s also when people stopped caring about it. Nobody knows the owner died in a way they couldn’t understand, or maybe they never cared to begin with, but the paint’s been etched into and scratched off so the wood almost bled underneath. Maybe everyone just got used to things.

“The owner did it to themselves.”

The owner would probably say it’s just the birds.

There have only been two others going in and out of the house the entire time it’s been here. The only people on the outside who know what the house and owner are really like, but their homes are further down the street, closer to the edge crumbling off into the abyss. Once they’re gone, will what they know of the owner and the house die with them or will someone new be let in?

I wonder about the house sometimes. When it’s nearing the end of the street along with its decrepit neighbors, will the weeds have finally outgrown its fence? One day it’ll be gone and forgotten by everyone. It’s already been long forgotten by the kids who threw bottles at it, one day it’ll be forgotten by those who built it. Will there be anyone alive who saw the house as a home?

But right now I can’t see it as a home, this body of mine.

Author Bio

---