In the house down the street there lived a family of three: Mom, Pop, and Lindsey. They drifted into the baby blue Victorian like a spring breeze and had stayed there since. Spreading out their things within the four walls until their things bumped the corners. From then on they planted their roots and that was it.
Lindsey beat down the stairs every morning to inhale breakfast, march to school, or take the car out for a long drive. A rinse and repeat would occur later when Lindsey returned and trampled those stairs to watch cartoons, work on homework, or drink in anonymity. In between, there were some minor interruptions from Mom and Pop. Packed bags with stickers slapped on them. Chattering from the deck. Missing cars from the driveway. But the steadiness of paradise always reigned supreme.
Until everything started to rankle on Lindsey. Like an itch that couldn’t be scratched. She woke up one day and the ceiling was closing in. Its pristine whiteness seeking to mute and silence forever. She could taste the plaster in the back of her throat. Then the ceiling grew bored and remained where it was. Later portraits wanted to trap her. The bowl of fruit down the hall promised eternal life. Some tiny girl in a gondola waved at her with a cheeky smile. Lindsey averted her eyes until the portraits found a new source of entertainment. The absolute worst was when Lindsey’s own books turned on her. They wanted to be read more than once. So they tried to snare her with chains. Invisible ties to keep her close. She quieted her mind to not be tempted and it worked.
Until Lindsey began to age paradoxically. When she dressed up for work her age leaped forward and suddenly she had wrinkles under her eyes. This wasn’t permanent. Her age reverted a little too far back when she wanted to slink off to see some friends. She never did get her true age back. It was lost as she clambered toward back pain or swung back to the pudginess of her youth. All this drove her to the books before her mind went too.
The four walls became iron bars. Mom and Pop unwittingly became wardens. Lindsey soon enough became an actor. Her inner world expanded to include all the new memories she made on the outside. But when she returned, the outer world contracted to fit her into a tiny safe box. The box within a box that Mom and Pop and the home could safely handle without any worries.
Until the box lit up within. Lindsey got into the habit of playing with matches. She lit them near Mom and Pop enjoying the explosions that would be set off each time. It gave her a pleasure to watch Mom and Pop smear her flames across the family pictures. Fire purified the gentle smiles in each one. At some point though the tiny flames became normal. Lindsey then started playing with a flamethrower. She allowed streams of flame to eat at her clothing, shoes, and hair. But she got carried away and soon the laps of fire ate away at the foundations of the home
Solid roots gone. The periwinkle walls never stood a chance giving way to blackened ashes on the front lawn. The firefighters made it right on time to watch the Victorian collapse on its own weight. Mom, Pop, and Lindsey were gone by then. The breeze must have carted them out.
The house down the street is still there. Its charred, hulking mass now the local neighborhood eyesore. I don’t really care much for the whereabouts of Mom and Pop. But Lindsey whispers of a faraway place when I sleep.
Marie Guerrero is a law student and frequent writer who loves a great story. She graduated with a dual BA in Political Science and International Studies from Manhattanville College. She currently lives in Yonkers, NY, but travels often for more story ideas. Find Marie at @PameG198.
