She'll never forget any of it. How could she? It was just another day, fighting with the man she loved more than anything. They'd somehow ended up at an abandoned house down the street where the man she loved had been drinking. It was somewhere they hung out from time to time. This particular day, things got out of hand.

They'd been fighting since the morning, and she decided she couldn't take the arguing for another second. She grabbed her things, and walked out the door of the empty house. She was almost out of the driveway when she heard a noise she will never forget. It was the sound of her lover's 357. revolver. She didn't hesitate for a second. Running up those stairs and into that room. That's when she saw him with the gun. A sheet wrapped around it to soften the blow, pointed at his own head. It was a sight she'd never forget. His words were unclear, but his plan rang through her without doubt. He was going to kill himself, and she was forced to be the witness.

After an hour or so of begging, and pleading with him to put the gun down, somehow things took a turn. Suddenly the gun was pointed at her. She couldn't believe what was happening. All he could say to her was "Sit down, turn around, and shut up." But she refused.

In the end, she somehow did it. She'd gotten the gun out of his hands. I guess she had made him see in some small way a reason not to pull the trigger. They left the abandoned house, and went home together where she let him fall asleep. First chance she received she told someone about what happened, and got help.

There's more to the story, but the rest is lost. She can only remember the sound, the horror, the sadness, and the words he said. In the end no life was taken, but something still died that day.

The needle broke skin.

She remembers

There was a time before needles

a time when she was a princess, a good home, good family.

She presses on the plunger

The needle drops to the floor, mixing with other discarded trash. She feels more stable and in-control more there.

She looks around the house she grew up in, abandoned after her father's heart attack and death.

She picks up the discarded needle, places it in her insulin bag before leaving.

She remembers

How her dad was bigger than life, how he chased monsters from the closet. It was him and her against the world.

She remembers and regrets nothing

She was walking past the house where it all happened. A house that no one now lives in, almost eerie as though it was haunted. Grass bending from the length, you could almost feed every cow in the world with it. Glass still shattered from escape, graffiti all over the wooden front. 'Pig' 'Evil' 'Devil'

It was haunted, a different haunted, haunted with cringing memories and evil actions. Flash backs hit her like unexpected high beams from incoming traffic.

Ropes, whips, blood, sex, torture, vulnerability.

She could still remember the pain from the punches she got when she screamed "No!"

The scars from cigarettes he used to put out on her skin, like a permanent reminder.

"If your mother was still alive, this would've never happened, sweetheart...it's just a shame for you that you look so much like her."

The sky was impossibly distant above her as she lay in the dry grass.  Pale blue, like a bowl suspended, not a single cloud.  She had created a small nook for herself--crushed the tall grass below her stomping, bare feet and now she was concealed, a small boat sunk in a golden, rustling sea.

She'd come here often after the fire, walking the dusty road from the neighbors', escaping the heavy silence in the guest room she was sharing with her aunt, the closed drapes and kleenex wads and untouched tea mugs.  In retrospect, it seemed an odd choice, as it was this very same grass that had allowed the fire to spread so quickly, hungrily engulfing everything in its path, death and a blackened smoldering in its wake.

But the grass had grown back since that day, exactly three months ago.

Unlike so many other things, that disappear in an instant and are gone forever, like smoke dispersed in the wind.  

The charred remains of the house still stood, as though perpetually against the backdrop of a setting sun, blackened to silhouette.  If she sat up and turned east, she could see the roofline in the distance, leaning precariously, doomed to collapse when the winds picked up in early fall.

It had been a spring day, notable for its very ordinariness.  She'd eaten her breakfast of yogurt on the front porch, swinging her feet off the edge, watching their shadows pass over the ground.  It was quiet, a mild breeze stirring the yellowing grass, birds warbling in distant trees at the horizon.  Her uncle had gone out to start the tractor a half hour or so before, and she could see him now, out in the field, bent over the engine.  His red cap stood out like a beacon and he was dwarfed by distance and the rusting hood that hung open above him.  Inside, her aunt bustled about, humming distractedly as she passed from room to room, pushing windows closed against the gathering heat.

As she turned to open the screen door, she heard a shout, and wheeled about to see a looming tower of black smoke hovering, then moving toward her over the field.  Orange flames licked, rose, grew, reached and she could see nothing of the tractor or her uncle.

"Auntie!" she shrieked, and felt her voice strain against the roar in the air, in her ears.

She froze, paralyzed with panic.  No answer from inside.  She ran into the house, screen slamming roughly behind her, screamed.  Couldn't stop.  Heart in her throat, bursting.  Her aunt on the stairs, eyes wide with fear.  "Get outside, now!"

The porch, the field, the road.  Air that burned, hot and singeing her throat.  And the roaring that grew.  Tears on her hot cheeks and rasping, ragged breaths as she ran as fast and as far as she could, and then farther.

Neighbors' voices, loud and then very quiet.  The house, consumed, yellow paint melted, peeling, the brick chimney somehow bright, unscathed in the ruin.  Distant sirens howled, too late.

Her uncle, vanished, the tractor a shrunken smoking skeleton.  The ground black, the sky gray.  

Her aunt, silent in the midst of comforting arms, her mouth slightly open, still carrying a dishtowel in one hand.

She had lost count. Was it the 152nd day? Everyday, she came out to stare at the sea hoping that help would come. She was quick becoming one of them. One of the termite-eaten woods, wilted leaves and withered grasses with her clothes becoming more of rags as the days passed. Today, as she stood there the whole scene flashed before her mind again, causing her heart to ache as always, wondering when her parents would come for her. She didn't have to be a princess. She didn't even want to be one but here she was, suffering on a lone cliff with little or nothing to eat because she wasn't going to be the first princess with a deformed face. She remembered the terrifying look of hate on the king's face when he saw her after the accident. She could still hear him as he gave the orders to hide her from the world forever. She could still hear her mother's sobs unable to argue with the king as the shipped her off to this abandoned house on the lone cliff. "When would this end?" She thought. "When would I..." Her thoughts were cut short by the sight of a ship drawing closer to the cliff. "Help! Help!!" She screamed. "Diana!!!" What? Her name? She knew that voice anywhere. "Motherrrrrrrr!!!!"

She breathed in. 

The sound of her footsteps, the creak of floorboards beneath her weight. A disturbance in the otherwise silent room. Her fingers traced the molding along the wall, following. She let it lead her, taking her away. Take her back in. 

A pause. Hesitation. Her foot hit tile and a hand fell to her side, fingers feeling of dusty ink. Like a criminal, charged and booked.  

Grit. Determination. She closed her eyes. Just for a moment, just to reassure. With a tight chest, she pressed on. 

Familiar. 

A chill ran down her spine as she made her way through the kitchen, hip brushing the cabinets that clung to their hinges in the same way they had years before. It was almost like nothing had changed. She glanced at the floor, half expecting to see amber shards of glass. 

There was none. Just ghosts. 

The room was silent, but she listened closely. She heard the shouts, felt the tears, hot on her cheeks. Now, she kept it straight, taut. 

She rounded an invisible table, peering through a window. The glass didn't match, too clear between the panes compared to the musty inside of the others. New.

A shudder. She walked out. 

The stairs were just as welcoming, which is to say, not at all. The rail did not fit in her hand. Aversion spiked her blood. Ghosts tugged on her- warning, threatening. 

Wrong. 

She was deliberate, but not careful. 

Sheets. Dust. She coughed, nose burning as she reached for a lamp that was not there. Her fingertips met nothingness. 

The room was empty. She felt similar. 

Where she slept was no more. Where she wept crept on her, a cold tide lapping at her ankles. She did not shiver. 

She turned in a semicircle. The room was empty, save for the fingers around her neck. 

This was a mistake. She turned around and left. Down the stairs without a thought, she walked out the door. 

The dead were not to be disturbed. 

She left, casting no glance behind her. A mistake.  

The door remained unlocked. 

She breathed out. 

It smelled like death in here. You could feel it too, the death. That and the betrayal, the guilt and the sins. This place once held my most cherished memory and now it holds the ones that keep me awake at night in paralysing, haunting nightmares. I had the one and only Zara Jessson to blame for this. 

The wooden floorboards with wild greenery growing all around them, reaching up like viscous claws of nature, creaked underneath me as I stepped further into the abandoned house at the bottom of Earls Street. Up until 2010 no one dared step foot in here for twenty years, apparently the place was haunted. Of course it was Zara Jesson who broke this twenty year streak and searched the house top to bottom when she was thirteen years old looking for the slightest sign of something that resembled Caspar. 

She was the girl. The girl that founded this place, the girl that made it her den. She was also the girl I fell madly in love with. I turned back toward the door seeing myself four years ago from now bursting through those doors aged fifteen hand in hand with Zara. 

"I still think this place is haunted," I muttered to myself eyeing up the creepily half burned paintings that came from the early 20th century and the black drapes hung around the staircase. This place would have been a beautiful mansion once. 

Zara rolled her eyes at me and tugged on my hand pulling me further into the house, she was a full head shorter than me and thin enough to fit through prison bars but I let her believe she could actually pull me about. You did small things like that for the people you loved. "It's not haunted Alex, you god-damned pussy. How many times have we hung out in here?" 

"Not once have I hung out with you here willingly," I uttered glaring at the back of her blonde head. She had that blonde hair that was so light it was actually white. It meant when she stood in front of the light she looked like an angel, of course Zara couldn't possibly be any less like an angel if she tried. 

She chuckled at me and started yanking me up the unsteady stairs, a beaming smile on her face. I wondered what the hell she was smiling about. 

I unsteadily made my way up the same stairs I once raced up hand in hand with Zara four years ago and held onto the cracked bannister for support. One of the steps was particularly hazardous because back two years ago the tree outside had actually overgrown so much that it had pushed through the old, weak wall of the house and up through the stairs. I hauled myself up the rest of the stairs carefully then made my way into the hallway. Glancing at the familiar door. 

Zara pointed towards the mould covered door at the end of the hallway. "If I lived here, that would be my bedroom," she announced. 

I stared down at her with wide eyes, "Zara you live in a mansion, why on earth would you want to live here?"

She started walking toward the doorway and because she was still gripping my hand in hers I had no choice but to follow her into the room. "Because it's big, isolated and has so much potential." 

When we entered the room she shoved her backpack off her shoulder and pulled out a blanket, unfurling it on the dirty ground like a damn magician. She winked at me, "I brought a picnic." 

I pushed open the doorway warily, using my sleeve to cover my hand before I shook my head at myself and just used my hand. I'd had sex in this room and now I didn't even want to open the door with my bare hand? Talk about hypocritical. The room was mainly empty aside from a deteriorating dresser and a now mould covered vanity mirror. Every other piece of furniture by this point had just fell into a pile of wood. 

I glanced down at the spot on the floor where Zara had laid out the blanket for our picnic, that's where it had happened. Where I tumbled into a clinging love I should have never fell into. 

Zara dropped the rest of the strawberry into her mouth, letting out a sigh as she chewed. She was laying on her back with her eyes closed, blonde lashes caressing her cheeks and as usual she looked ridiculously beautiful without even trying. How the hell I'd got her to go out with me I'd never know. She said it was because I was 'pretty darn good looking' myself but when I looked in the mirrors I couldn't see it. At least not anything that compared to her angel like beauty. 

She opened her eyes and saw me staring down at her in what was probably wonder and whispered, "Alex. Kiss me." 

So I did, my lips crushed against hers tongues invading each others mouths, lips sucking on each other. Hands roaming to places they'd never roamed before and lips roaming to places they'd never dare roam before, leaving purple bruises all along her chest. I pulled back when I felt her rubbing herself against me in a delicious rhythm, "Zara I've never-"

"Neither," she said and lifted her head to suck onto my collarbone again making me groan with pleasure. Her hand trailed down to my jeans and she started stroking me through them, before slowly undoing the button and pulling down the zipper. 

"I don't have a condom." 

She sucked from my collarbone up to my neck, "Doesn't matter." 

I frowned, wishing I wasn't so responsible and could just shut up and enjoy this. "We're fifteen." 

"There's always after pills," she replied into my neck. When I tried to argue again she pulled back and held my face between her hands, "Alex. Although you may find it creepy, this is my favourite place, and you're my favourite person. I want this, I want this now and I want you. I love you." 

And that was how fifteen year old me lost his virginity in the abandoned house at the end of Earls Street. And boy did I cherish that memory for the following year when I was actually still in love with Zara. But then during Junior year she grew colder, distant and honestly, just flat out mean. She was angry at the world, she'd been diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder and she hated it. She didn't understand why she had depression, she didn't understand that people sometimes just got it without having a "valid" reason and mostly she didn't understand how to fight against it. 

It was horrible, but I didn't love her any more. I wanted to, I really wanted to and that was why I stayed with her for a year even when she wasn't the same Zara but a harsher more bitter version. But eventually I couldn't do it any more, I broke up with her. Tried to make the blow as easy as possible but of course it was inevitable she would get hurt. 

And then just over a week later she hung herself in the exact same spot where we first made love on what would have been our anniversary. Yeah, that sent me quite the message; she was all but blaming me for her suicide. And honestly: I blamed me too. I remembered she'd gone missing for two days so I raced to the first place that sprung to mind. 

Storming up the stairs and actually breaking one of the boards as I did so, I wasn't expecting what I found when I burst through the mouldy door to her favourite room. Zara, paler than usual, beautiful white blonde hair covering her face and in the slight breeze she was swinging with her feet a foot from the floor and the rope clinging to her neck.

I was completely, wholly paralysed. Until the police found me too, a day later curled up into the corner of the the room staring at her weak, pale, body. My eyes were red raw, maybe because I didn't stop crying for 24 hours or maybe because I was so paralysed I never blinked. I felt dead, and then I realised when people die they also kill the people around them. This was her payback, she'd killed me. Sadistically, painfully, heartbreakingly she'd killed me. I looked over my shoulder at the girl who was once the reason I bothered getting up in the morning.

And she was. Still. Fucking. Swinging. 

And that was how Zara murdered both herself and me. Because it's the people around you that truly suffer when you die. What hurt the most was that right now, as she watched me mourn her, she was probably rolling in her grave. Because I'm the reason she's gone.

Clouds gargle and release rain which patters downward onto her broken house. Through dusty curtains, she can see water slipping against the window panes. She has been here a long long time, waiting. Waiting too long. 

She curls herself into a corner of the room. The walls are white, the floors are white, all she sees is white. She looks towards her hands--no rosy pink undertones, no warmth.

Plastic is covering the bed, the dresser, and the floor. It crinkles under her toes, no longer cold to her. The room looks sterile, it reminds her of the hospital. Her brain throbs--it hurts to think about it. She thinks of something else--laughter.

She remembers the laughter. Laughter followed by footsteps thumping down the hallway, into the master bedroom, and onto the large fluffy bed. She remembers planting kisses onto her fathers cheek. A rosy cheek that bellowed out deep chuckles and whispered "I love you kiddo".

The prickles of her fathers beard still itch against her skin. She touches her cheek. So cold. She wonders how long it will rain as she remembers the sounds of laughter. She looks towards the white dusty door, cracked, barely open. Her hand trembles--and she reaches for the knob. Where is the laughter?

She sat by the porch of what she once knew as home. Which now was just a wreck that brought back the worst memory. Of the silent night he creeped into her bed, when she was all alone, in their tiny house when her parents were away for the weekend. He was supposed to watch over her, but instead he used her, took advantage of her and gave her a mouth to feed.His drunken self stripped her of her dignity and pride, leaving her all naked on the bathroom floor, with puffy eyes from all her tears. If only she had the voice to scream and shout to the world of what was being done to her but she had been born deaf and dumb. But if he hadn't, she would be a mess, in and out of rehab, jobless and now homeless. She had it difficult as a teen who couldn't talk or hear, and the fact that her parents were never around to give her strength, she had to turn to something that made her forget about her life. He saved her with the unspeakable deed. Because instead of being a dead beat junkee, she became a proud mum of a 3 year old who is her world and her home. A proud mum of a cute angel who she gives the love she never got, because she would never want her to go through what she did. She found her joy, her happiness and her gift in disguise.

The view of the ocean was lovely this time of year. It was always splendid, but this time of the year was particularly breathtaking. At least, I think this is the loveliest time of the year.

The years have a tendency to blend together when you're old. This time last year could have been ten years ago or ten days ago. I rarely know the difference. When you've known this much time, it's hard to remember how much time things actually take.

First it was the Shums living here. A lively crew, loud and full of love, who helped to build the walls I now know. Then the Kraftsows, another loud and wild gang who's headstrong nature eventually took them far away from here. The Lyons came next, a proud group, somewhat detached but fiercely loyal and determined to bring honor to their names. The Misch came last, and stayed for what felt like forever. They were caring, bubbling with life, a refreshing relief from the others. A reminder of better day with kinder people.

Even they, too, would leave. It was a slow and painful process. The first handful of generations always came back. But the last was different. First the children left for school. The parents stayed behind, finally able to enjoy the peaceful views in perfect silence. The children were successful, the parents proud, but they never returned. Instead they left to seek the riches of other lands, and drifted farther and farther from the beautiful shores they use to call their summer home.

The parents learned to hate the silence. They longed for the years that the halls rang with joyous laughter and pitter patter of small feet. The father began to blame the mother, for he felt that it was her smothering nature that had driven them away. She retaliated by saying that he was being over critical, and that they would return once their place in the world was stable and not changing like the tide. He disagreed, and when the years passed without their return, he left as well.

This destroyed her. Depression ate her alive, as she became a shell of what she once was. She was right, though. The children did come back. But only to visit, and never for long. They could not bear to see what their mother had become. She died, here, between these four walls. No one found her body for weeks. When they did, they removed her, and the children decided to sell the property. But no one ever made an offered.

That's how I became the way I am. Cold, alone, wind whipping through my rafters and critters making nests in my walls. Struggling to remember if that instance I remember was last year, or last decade. I remember that my walls used to be filled with laughter. I remember that I was built with love. And I will always remember one clear, perfect memory: the way the first little girl looked up at me, smiling, exclaiming "Apa! Apa! Look! The windows of the house are smiling at me!"