This is the house where she grew up. A place that she has known so well for so long, yet is now so different. Sounds and smells once omnipresent are no more. Even the light seems to have changed, from bright fiery crimson and almost ultraviolet purple, to only shades of gray, sickly green and pale blue. So much is missing. Only ethereal ghosts linger in this empty space. Only absence prevails.

There is no sound. All she can hear is the wind outside, her footsteps, her breath and the beating of her own heart as she gives the place a last scan. The sounds of constant fighting, the muffled screams through her bedroom door and her pillow are no more. They are now part of the phantoms lingering around, little more than remote memories of pain and hurt.

There are no people. She is alone, the last one to leave. The first one was her father; years later her mother. Her sister soon after. She is the only one clinging to this existence that doesn’t exist anymore. She is the only one who still sees the spectres silently moving around her in every room.

There is no furniture. Only rubble and detritus. Everything that could be sold, has already been sold. Whatever was left, was already given away. Anything that was still there after that, she was the one who had to throw it away. Mementos of childhood and teenage years turned into figments of imagination, lying now somewhere amongst other trash.

Maybe that’s where they belonged all along.

Nothing remains; no curtains, no appliances, no decoration. Garbage and ghosts is all that’s left. And her, struggling, having to deal with both.

She heads to the front door, stops and looks around, knowing it will be the last time: there is no more violence, at least. There is no more violence, _at last_.

She locks the door. She walks away, taking the ghosts with her.

The house where she grew up is now, finally, dead.