Home is Where


Home is Where

I open the door to festering walls; its words are but mumbles in the dark.

It’s dark here.

The wallpaper has grown rancid and spongy to the touch. Heaters, an extension of the walls, turn their backs on me. I’m left cold and alone.

I continue walking.

On my right, I hear noises. The floor nips at my feet, teeth bared, snarling. The carpet tries to flee. Forlorn hope. Armchairs snap at me, the sofa glares backed in the corner. The curtains rise and hiss, chilling venom whips envelops my body. Or is it fear?

“This is our domain,” the fireplace comes alive with the crackle of firewood and ash.

I feel the sharp poke of the living room door behind me. Tusks pressed into my back, urging me to leave.

I comply.

I continue walking…

I stop.

There’s a fork in the road. The path to the right promises stinging white walls, a wooden floor with roots peeking out between the cement; a table made of a thousand silk threads. Eyes rake over me, panting, pleading with me to take my first steps.

I choose the path on the left.

I climb dimly lit stairs and suddenly it’s hard to breathe. I lick my lips and taste the seasoned air – I can hear the muffled cry of birds. The stairs begin to liquefy. I hold tight to the bannister and hear the flapping of wings above me. I reach the top and face a single door.

I reach out to open it.

Inside, my legs weaken. I lay on my bed, greeted by the feel of wet leather on my body and seaweed beneath my head. I sense something in the folds of my bedsheets.

I close my eyes and dream.



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