Tick tick tick. The incessant ticking of the hallway clock that was passed down from my great grandmother drives my eyes open. 5am. It’s hardly time for me to be awake but I can’t help but feel like I need to get out of this house. My mother told me one day I’d be grateful to inherit a house that has seen the birth of many family members before me, but now that I’m alone here, I feel as though I’ve been trapped into living the life I never wanted.

I sit up and twist out of bed, finding my slippers and pulling on my robe to help ease against the chill. This house has always been drafty, and this mornings moist Autumn air does little to help it feel lived in. I reluctantly make my way to the kitchen where I fill the kettle and place it on the stove to heat. Maybe some tea will help me feel better about the lack of sleep I’ve had this week.

After tea and a shower I look at grandmothers clock once more. 530am. How is it possible for time to move so slowly? I always remember listening in to my mothers friends during their weekly bunko games. They’d mention how fast time had passed, and that one day the kids would understand what they meant when they wished they could stop the clock. What I would give for my days to feel that way.

I decide it’s time for a walk. Maybe some fresh air will help to brighten my mood. I can’t remember the last time I felt bright. It was definitely some time before mom died. Her final year was hell for her and me both, so it’s been at least that long. I wonder if I’ll ever find the ability to be content like I imagined life would one day feel. I guess with her only having been gone three months, I shouldn’t get to greedy.

Once outside, my feet take me through the neighborhood. This early morning walk has become my daily ritual. At least being out this early means I don’t have to stop and chat with any of the nosy neighbors who look at me with pity in their eyes. Losing a parent almost seems like it puts a label on your forehead that tells others to look at you with sadness, and to only strike up awkward conversations about the weather. It would be one thing if they just treated you like normal, but all they want is to feel like they did something good by offering you a smile and mind numbing conversation.

As I walk through the suburban, but spread out, neighborhood I could describe in detail with my eyes closed I come to the end of the lane to the house with the creaking dead oak tree in the center of what was once presumably a front lawn. I imagine this house was beautiful once, with its stone pillars lining the sidewalk and driveway with iron lampposts atop each one. Growing up, all the kids called this Mr Wilbur’s house, though as far as I know there never was a Mr Wilbur, and I’ve never actually seen anyone live here before. When I was young, the older teenagers used to come and party here, but Neighborhood Watch put an end to that and boarded up the entrances before I got to partake. Childhood stories told of the horrors that happened in this house, but I think every neighborhood has one of those. The scary house where the children say the witch lives, but it’s actually just some sweet old lady that lost her husband to a war and never had the chance to remarry or have children.

This particular house stands out in the neighborhood. The homes here are all one story, and each one looks like a fraternal twin to the next. Except Mr Wilbur’s house. It definitely belonged to someone wealthy. It has two stories, and the lot it sits on is three times the size of each of the neighbors. The once white siding has turned dingy and grey over time and only a few shutters remain intact. Normally I just walk along the sidewalk and continue my path back home but today, something catches my attention. I’m not sure what it is, but my chest feels drawn to the house. I guess there’s no harm in taking a walk up the driveway to check out what has become of the abandoned building.

To be continued..