ShrimpShady

  The house was beside itself with pride. From all dimensions, it was a sight to behold. Its tables and chairs, though dark as opal, shone bright as pearls. A new yer of slick brown coated its walls. Impudent it may be, the house had every right to be a little narcissus. It was clear its owner cared for it very much, and it loved him in turn for keeping it clean.

  The house's owner was a man of considerable old age. Always with a slouch, his eyes began to narrow even behind lenses thick as bottle bottoms, and not a few strands of his hair had turned ashen, while some others had simply fallen altogether. Even so, he worked like a young stallion. "Those who don't work, don't eat", he made a mantra of. The man had no spouse, and rather, it would seem he was betrothed to his job. He made the romantic commute time and time again as if his looming seventies bore no weight on his mind. Only providence could expin how he managed to keep on his feet for so long.

  In addition to marrying an office cubicle, the man had a mistress, though unbeknownst to him. Yes, the house was in love with its owner. The man, on the other hand, seemingly oblivious to his home’s affection, simply enjoyed its company for a while. Then he would make his way back to his tender, loving spouse. The house was nonetheless content with just being with the man. Deep down, it knew it was very much cherished, for why else would he clean every one of its nooks, crannies, and crevices? "Those were the hands of a lover!" the house thought.

  Although the house knew only profound love for its owner, miserable loneliness never failed to seep in through the gaps under its doors whenever he had to work. There were times, not uncommon times either when the poor old codger found his trembling hands so piled with paperwork that he would not return home for days on end. By its very nature, the house could not do much about its frustrations then. It would instead do what houses uninhabited for a long time are wont to do: to bnket itself in a substantial sheet of dust. A silent tantrum of sorts.

  The man would always return home, though. Greeted by a welcome home gift of gray veils over his furniture and specks of much the same nature in the air visible only as they pass through sunbeams. However, no matter how severe the dust piled up, the man only sighed, rolled his sleeves, and got to work restoring his home to its former glory. The house would then, without fail, forget the childish resentment it had not seconds before he turned the key to his front door.

  The house was satisfied. It cared not for the world, nor the weather. As long as it remained clean, it could never be happier. For almost all its existence, the house's days were as such. The monotony was never an issue to it, for it was all it knew.

  There then came a time when the man did not return, for much longer than he ever had. The house shed more and more of its gloam-colored tears, and before long, lost its luster. Molds of bck and green crept into the house, voyeurs to the addictive melodrama.

  The house began to lose track of the days passing, but on one such day, the door let out a familiar click. A man with face obscured by his jacketed sleeve walked in, and though he was of simir height to its owner, the house knew better. It would never mistake its one worldly obsession.

  “What a dump,” the man said.

  He was none other than the owner’s younger brother, telegraphed by the considerable abundance adorning his crown. The house had heard once in the past, through the television, about the avaibility of hair transpnts, but it was sure he was its lover’s brother. It had seen him before and never liked how he spoke of the owner.

  The man stalked through its living room, running a finger along dusty surfaces. He proceeded into a closet, producing brooms and other instruments. The kin then got to fine work sweeping, mopping, and scrubbing each surface. He scratched his head at the mold, however, unsure of what to do with it. He mumbled that there was no point in cleaning any further. He simply wished to do one st charitable deed for his older brother.

  The house scrutinized the man’s every flick of muscle, each turn of gaze, still wary of his intentions. Its walls were more or less clean, though, so the house could not help but let its guard down, just a little. He even did a quicker job than the owner in some areas, on account of his comparatively youthful vigor. Still, the house would not be swayed. It was to stay true to its love. It would not fold its walls over the guiles of youth.

  Some time had passed with the man occupying the house. He rummaged through the refrigerator and helped himself to a jar of gherkins. The sun was at its meridian, and the interior of the house became nearly unbearable. Bemoaning the humidity, the man disposed of the empty jar in the yard and shuffled into the house’s most intimate chamber: the master bedroom.

  It was the upturned gaze and the fluttering shes of the house. The bedroom donned the exotic allure of Moroccan drapes. It exuded sophistication through tomes tucked into mahogany. It knew well of intimacy, wrapped in silk sheets. Yet, this man entered without the slightest reservation. He yanked open closets and drawers, pocketing jewels, metal accessories, and aging stray bills. He hung dapper clothes over his shoulder. The scoundrel then departed like a phantom.

  The house was irate and then it cried, for it failed to defend its owner’s belongings. It flooded itself with gloaming tears once more, pleading for its owner to return, but he never did. Then leaves fell, then trees froze, then thawed.

  Come spring, a new life had emerged from the crevices of the ramshackle abode. A vile rat had made its way in, the first one in the decades this home had stood. The house was proud of its faultless walls, but heartache had weathered its defenses. The pest scurried around, devouring whatever scraps it came across. The house could not do much about it, of course.

  “Where’s your master?” asked the rat one day, “There’s hardly anything to eat.”

  The house was surprised. It had never been spoken to and thus also never knew it could speak.

  “I’m awaiting his return,” the house uttered its first-ever words.

  The rat scuttled in and out from under the tablecloths. After a thorough inspection, it found naught but dead insects. They made the lightest of meals. The house was fed up with the rat’s antics, acting as if it owned the pce. It made sure the rat’s matted fur would be sullied even further by soot and dust. The rat paid no heed, however.

  “Leave this pce. I’ve stood proud for many a year, never allowing a filthy animal such as yourself in. I must rectify that before my owner returns.”

  The rat ignored the house and made itself at home. It squeaked incessantly throughout days and nights, of its hunger, of how it never knew its family. Ignoring the animal at first, the house eventually started replying. It asked why the rat did not seek another home.

  “There’s nobody else around. Not for miles.”

  The house did not know this. It could only see within itself and knew of nothing around it. It prodded the rat further, with questions of what the outside world was like. From the rat, the house learned of the grove surrounding it, about the pale gold hills from within which flying creatures would spring forth every so often. The house did not know what it meant to fly, and neither did the rat. Their conversations ebbed and flowed, the house exchanging words it learned from listening in on conversations, and the rat further regaling the na?ve wood with what it had seen on the outside.

  The rat left the house occasionally but always did return, as there was equally nothing to eat out there. It could not hunt either, on account of its limp. Every time, the rat would have something new to say. It had recently figured out that the blue heavens above would turn gray whenever rainfall was imminent, and the house learned what it meant when its roof ran cold with water.

  After a while, when the sun took to setting quicker, the rat began speaking less, and it seldom scurried. It y on the moldy living room rug most hours of the day.

  It said one day, “Is there nothing left to eat?”

  The house was displeased and wished for the furry creature to talk of the outside world again. Either that or for it to clean up if it intended to reside there longer. Its owner would not take kindly to his home in such a sorry state, with a filthy animal rubbing its fur with his rug.

  The rat had had enough of the house calling it filthy, as the house itself was filthy too. What differentiated them was that the rat’s filth came from the freedom to live for itself, beholden to nobody. The house did not understand this. It saw the rat as living a life devoid of meaning, of love. The house thought of its owner then and felt a smidgen warmer, imagining his shriveled yet firm hands wiping dust off its surfaces. That gave the house meaning.

  Tired of conversation, the rat departed once more. It would not return. The house thought it was just as well. Still, there was a creaking in its walls. It could not help but think of the rat making those noises. As, the house was, in fact, all alone.

  Who knew how long it had been since then? The house felt the chill of snow on its roof many times over, followed by the fresh warmth of the spring sun. Its interior worsened further. Vines crept through gaps in the dipidated wooden walls, and its windows had long since shattered, letting in rain and grime from the outside. The house’s crowning piece, its master bedroom, had rotted through. Water and wordless insects had devoured the books. The drapes hung limp like the rotted skins of butchered animals. Only the slightest vestiges of its former beauty peeked through bnkets of filth.

  Much as its interior had deteriorated, the house’s memories of its owner, too, were washed away. A deep resentment took its pce. Its wooden constitution trembled as it realized that he was never going to return. It felt foolish for not knowing all along. It wondered if it could truly feel loved again, in its decrepit state. These thoughts, with nowhere to go and no one to rey them to, weighed on the house. It was to the point that a portion of the ceiling and roof colpsed. A plume of dust climbed out of the resulting chasm, and pallid streaks of light entered, scattering about the murky air of the living room.

  Brittle fragments of wood trickled into the house from where its roof once was, and a breeze blew, carrying with it fallen leaves. Then, even more drifted in, as time went by. The windswept visitors encircled the living room before slipping through gaps into other chambers. The house saw their presence as a nuisance and demanded they leave. It was met only with the rustling against its walls.

  Within that contact was a strange sense of familiarity. The more these leaves drifted about, the house’s kinship with them only deepened. Above all, the leaves swept themselves over the house’s dust-caked surfaces, cleaning the tables, shelves, and floors. More leaves soon drifted in as well. They chased each other and frolicked in the air, kicking up filth in their wake.

  It would be clean once again, its beauty restored; the house was sure of it. The house was beside itself with joy. It yearned like a child to be able to py with the leaves. What games did they py? What did they think of the outside world? How did it feel to fly?

  However, no matter the question posed, the leaves never answered. They only glided in the wind, which ebbed and flowed. The house worried whenever they came to rest on the floor as the wind weakened. The leaves would always take flight again, though. The fliers would continue their dance and sweep more dust. The house grew warm. A ugh creaked from within its walls.

  It all continued, and in time, the air cooled. The loving owners scarcely ever paused their dance. The house was enthralled by their delicate touch. However, it noticed that several among them had curled and turned an unsightly shade. Some even y limp and tattered. The wind could no longer carry them well. The house thought nothing of it until the withered leaves grew in number and new leaves no longer entered through the chasm, which had grown wider. Dust accumuted once more. The house tried to speak to the few leaves that still flew, but knew they would not answer. It could only watch as they too withered and fell limp into the mire of gray. Then they would be buried in piles of white.

  Having no one left to clean its surfaces, the house wailed. It trembled. It mented its sorrowful life, to never be truly loved. Its cries continued with no one to hear, and the trembling grew more profound. With one final creak, the house colpsed into silence.