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The Blue House

I remember the day we chose the blue house. It was falling to pieces. The porch was held by rotting pieces of wood, surrounding itself with long grass and weeds. The carpet was stained and the windows looked as if they hadn’t been cleaned in over a century. It was perfect. Hand in hand we said “We’ll take it”. Smiles were stretched over our faces. This was the beginning of our future.

A week later you were unpacking boxes from the car. Our friends had shown up to help us turn our perfect wreck into a home. We scrubbed the spider web infested windows and painted the mustardy walls to the brightest white. Chucky, our dog, ran around the overgrown lawn chasing his tail while you pulled out weeds and chopped down the rotting tree stumps. By the end of the day the benches were gleaming and windows sparkling. The smell of fresh paint spread throughout the house.

Within a month we had settled in and we were happy. You’d cook me dinner while I would have long candle-lit baths, then we’d sit on the couch in front of the fire with a snoring Chucky lying at our feet. In the mornings you’d run around with him playing tug of war.

But this didn’t last long.

The weeds grew back and spread like a disease over the porch. The carpets were damp and mould was rising over the freshly painted walls. You didn’t play with Chucky anymore. He would sit and stare out the window all day long, staring at his rope toy which was now drowning in long grass.

The house quickly stopped feeling like home. The light bulbs became dimmer and dimmer until they’d eventually blow. The front door was stiff and uninviting and the house would shake and let out a deafening creak in the thunder and lightning which never seemed to stop.

The Blue House wasn’t for us anymore and the decision to leave was made. Only this time we wouldn’t leave hand in hand but go our separate ways.



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