Whenever I open my window I could not help but catch a glimpse of the house across the street. It is a mirror image of the house I am in. I can’t call this house my own because I just live here. It was actually more of, the house owns me. This has been my recluse for five years. The only difference between the two houses is me.
This morning I saw someone opened the gate. I heard the creaking sound of the metal gate and I scampered to open my window to see who it was. It was the first time I saw someone enter the once empty house.
Downstairs it seemed that someone is entering the house I’m in but my mind plays with me all the time so I ignored the noise.
My attention was fixed at the activities in the house across the street. I could see from my room what was happening inside that house. The windows have always been open as if inviting an audience. I wondered how the house survives during the rain when the wind is heavy and frightening. I never looked at that house during the storm.
The person who opened the gate was now on the second floor knocking at a room’s door. The room is actually facing my own. Two parallel worlds that never met. I could make out that he the man dressed in a suit complete with a bow-tie. I could tell his haste from afar by the way his knuckles were pounding the door.
Outside of my room I heard a loud banging noise. I stepped away from the window and walked to the door of my room.
But I turned around and back to the window when I heard the person on the other house scream aloud as if calling someone from behind that door. He seemed to believe that someone was inside that room. I thought of shouting and telling him there is no one in there but he might not hear me. No one ever did.
I went back and sat by the window, and observed as the scream go louder and louder.
This was my poor attempt at story telling which will never be my forte. I wrote this because I felt empty and wanted a parallel universe where I could feel the opposite. Just a part of a day, I get sad, I write my thoughts down and sleep. Lather, rinse, repeat.
By the way, the drawing is mine. There is a five year old inside of me whenever I attempt to draw.