I walk into the oak-wood wardrobe gently opening the carefully-chiseled door knobs. The smells I’m greeted with are terrible. There’s an overwhelming scent of sweat. There are clothes hanging untidily that smell like they’ve never heard of a dishwasher. I hold my nose, grimacing. I see a black shirt, and a dirty pair of denim shorts. The hamper is empty, and looks like it’s never been used. But worst of all, a rat lurks in the corner. A scream is heard throughout the house as I run out of the excuse of a wardrobe.