The House is a Metaphor

I'm on the balcony of my beachfront house, watching the sun fall behind the horizon. The sky is painted in rich yellows and deep pinks. The smell of salt clings to the air, small crystals so potent they adhere to the surface of my skin and bind to my hair. The warm summer breeze wraps around me, kissing my skin and leaving it dressed with goosebumps. The sound of waves crashing against the rocks is so soothing it sings me to sleep with a lull that whispers to me, “It’s safe for you to rest.”  

I awake to darkness. Not even the moon can illuminate the way. The sky is blanketed by thick storm clouds, and there’s a roaring coming from the ocean. I need to find my way inside before the storm hits. I fall over a lounge chair and feel the sharp sting of a fresh wound as it opens along my shin. I know the glass door is right in front of me, but it's a struggle to find it on my hands and knees. I'm bound to the ground, terrified that if I stand, I’ll be struck by some object that’s wandered from its natural place. 

I reach out and feel the hard steel of the door handle beneath my fingertips. I push down; it clicks open, and before I can step both feet inside, it slams shut behind me, forcing my body into the marbled kitchen benchtop. No cuts this time, but I know it will bruise. The sound of a high-pitched whistle escapes as air penetrates the windowsills, followed by the violent pounding of rain. It feels like it’s coming from every direction. 

As my eyes adjust to the dark, all I can see is black mould. The moisture in the air has peeled the wallpaper from the plaster, and now it's consuming every surface. I sank all my money into this property, and only now am I able to acknowledge all its problems. I was sold by its charm and idyllic appearance by a salesman with a tongue forked like a snake’s.  

I was living in an environment that was going to kill me slowly, if not all at once. 

I feel the wooden floorboards shift beneath my feet. The stilts the house was built on are being eroded by the incoming waves at an impossible rate. I’ll be swallowed alive if I don’t escape, but every door I run to is locked from the outside. It doesn’t matter how loudly I scream; I know no one is coming. 

There were warnings that this day would come. Passers-by, two confidants, and even a previous tenant of the house had cautioned me. I didn’t listen. I became trapped by my unwillingness to let go of all the good that was felt within those four walls, even when it was greatly outweighed by the bad.