There is a House

There is a house on an ordinary street in an ordinary city. It looked just like most of the other houses on that southwest street with its composition shingles and its masonry veneer.

It was built one year after my birth but I would not come to know it until the age of 16.

From its slab foundation to its gable style roof, it has seen much. Its drywall is saturated with devastating loss and unspeakable pain; forbearing through the years, providing a fortress for all who were lost and in need of shelter. They returned one by one to live there until they died. It remains the last stop before death even until this day.

He points the loaded shotgun inches from her face. It is cocked and he is ready. She pleads with him to shoot her, unwilling to take her own life. He is imagining her head splattered across the living room walls and he is salivating, wanting it more than a starving dog wants fresh meat. He is calculating the end game. The police will arrive, perhaps he will brandish his weapon, forcing them to shoot him as he too is unwilling to end his own miserable life.

Our lady of addiction resides within this otherwise innocuous parcel of real property. She carries with her the demons that torment the troubled soul, inhaling the life from their eyes until there is nothing left but a bare frame, floors you can see through to the floor below and remnants of the dreams that will never be.

No one will ever hear the music from those lovingly crafted instruments for they too shall be covered with blood.

And once again, addiction wins.