The Bones Of Home (We write: I write... You Write Entry)

Opening By @zeldacroft

With a gentle click, the door closed behind her. Dragged down by her heavy, black coat, she stood still in the dim mudroom. The sense of an empty, silent house was overwhelming. It felt off, the way a dream mimicking reality never feels quite right. But this was real.

She tried taking a step further inside, and then another. Each time was methodic and careful, as if her legs would give out. Through numbness and lost thoughts, she found herself at the edge of the dining room. The curtains were drawn closed, leaving the room in reflective shadows. The familiarity was faint too, echoed in the faded wallpaper, the framed photos.
Hesitantly, she placed her hand on the back of a dining chair, feeling the cool, smooth wood against her skin. A choking sensation arose as her eyes welled with tears. They spilt as she let go of the chair to try and wipe them away. How am I supposed to do this?

It was then that she noticed the light leaking in from the next room. The blinding shards, cast against the dark floor, interrupted her despair. With curious trepidation she followed them into the cozy kitchen, which was illuminated by the brightness beaming in from the window. She saw the golden glow softening the shadows, the gilded highlights sparking on the sink, and the evergreen trees beyond, basking in the daylight.

My Ending

She absently hooked her heavy coat onto the back of the kitchen door, the cool air of the empty house drifting through her thin black shirt. She rolled up her sleeves, trying to find the will to face the task ahead of her.

The warm glow of the kitchen felt wrong, hollow, as she stood in the light. The dulled tiles took a terracotta haze in the dusting beams.

Her eyes traced the well known shapes in the flooring, momentarily glimpsing the images she’d always seen in the mottled clay. A domino of forgotten moments engulfed her, yet like a memory cast through deja vu, something lingered beyond reach.

The voice. The one that had always graced these faded walls, had become a distant shadow in her mind.

The silence echoed with it’s absence.

A clock ticked. It’s familiar pitch jarred through her reminiscing, pulling her back to the present.

Focusing, she tried to take in the room.

A small side table caught her attention, crammed with trinkets and worn picture frames. They were people, immortalised in black and white photos. She’d always seen them, but looking at them now, she realized, she didn’t know who any of them were. These people, once beloved, no longer had anyone left to remember them.

She swallowed, trying to force the deep swell of pain down.

I have to do this.

The house was full of things, she knew she’d have to go through them all eventually.

She glanced up, past the window, to the wooden counter-top, scored with the knife marks of chopped vegetables. Nestled below the cupboards, hung from hooks, rested the cups she always remembered. Reaching out, she touched one, her hand slipped around it, finding comfort in the well-known curves.

Lifting it, her fingertips brushed the tacky ghost of a lipstick stain, that shade of red. Her throat tightened, cracks splintered, gouging their way deeper into her heart.

I can’t.

Her hands were shaking, she filled the kettle, the cold water splashing unnoticed over her arm.

The low burble of it heating up was soothingly hypnotic, and glancing around the time-capsuled kitchen, it all still felt the same.

But it wasn’t.

It couldn’t be, not ever again. Nothing would be. There was so much to do, so much to arrange, and the one person she wanted to turn to for help was gone.

A hole had been ripped through her gut, pulling something out of her she had no way to get back.

By the time the kettle clicked off, steam had plumed up against the window, dripping back down in snaking, sad droplets, and for a moment, Sasha felt as though the house cried with her.

This is my first time in this writing exercise, but I very much love the weekly #finishthestory so it's a concept I already like working with - taking the start of another, and adding your own touches, to create a complete story. This was an obvious way to go from the first half, but having recently cleared out a relative's house after their passing, it just seemed like the natural direction for me.

Written for We write: I write... You Write hosted over on @freewritehouse which I believe is hosted by @mariannewest - head over to the post for more info, and give them a follow for regular writing challenges and contests! This beautiful opening has been provided by @zeldacroft and the well crafted descriptions just really appealed to me <3

Photo Credit by Pexel User daria-shevtsova who also has her own website