The door shed its skin as it swung. Fragile flakes of black peeled off in its wake and fell to the floor, resting on the dry, withered wooden planks.

They settled in front of my feet as if trying to remind me of something, but I could not remember. Stepping through the doorway, I waited for the familiar aroma of baking to fill my nose and welcome me home. But no one was cooking, and an eerie silence that hung in the air, waiting for laughing and cheer, greeted me instead.

The faint light of dawn seeped through the open doorway, illuminating the scorched hall as it recoiled at me. I knew this place hated me. Perching above my head was a fire alarm with its hatch opened and batteries missing. Someone had unscrewed it but the thought of who it could be avoided me, mocked me. I knew I had felt uneasy in the past, a child in an adult world of set routines, calendar dates and responsibilities that didn’t fit me. I couldn’t remember, but it wasn’t me.

The heat had even more heavily scarred the lounge. Black claws, a permanently cast shadow of the raging red, had crept their way up the side of the walls as if to consume them. Thick dust drowned the room’s air and any sense of movement disturbed its uniformity, but only for a weary second, and then it became calm again. The floor creaked and cried as I approached the charred sofa, a once bustling hub of activity. My kids used to sit there playing games like Cluedo and be so proud when they found the killer. I was never invited to play though. Someone got angry, but it wasn’t me.

Wandering along the claustrophobic hallway, its sides black and scathed like burnt toast, I stumbled upon a familiar sight. A painting of a green stretched landscape with a small rusted shack resting on top of a hill. It was faded but I could make out some of the finer details, like the lock that held the door of the shack shut. I had always wondered what was inside there. In the beauty of a lush vibrant field, one orange shack lay waiting. What secrets raged inside and why were they kept inside? Was there something horrible in there, something of malicious intent? Someone opened that door once, but it wasn’t me.

Our bedroom had got it worst. The warming orange that painted the room had been melted away and a blackened overcoat intruded on its place. The dull light of dusk invited itself through the window to highlight my desk, now a warped and singed standing pile of ash. I would have closed the curtains if they hadn’t had been consumed. On top of my desk was a single beacon of light. It contrasted with the room like a lighthouse in the fog of night, guiding the ship home. It was a framed picture of me and my wife. We looked so content, our smiles like matching socks. If only I could keep the charade up, ignore her loud speeches that made me feel like a monster. Someone fought back, but it wasn’t me.

The setting sun bathed the balcony in an unfitting glow, attempting to drown out the truth burdened in their tortured walls. The sun would set soon though, and the array of colour that painted the sky would soon fade into a dark nothing. I liked that. I seated myself on the lone chair that occupied the balcony. It was like my final resting place, my withered throne. As I pondered, I felt a small object press against my leg. Reaching my hand into my pocket, I pulled out 2 small cylinders, batteries. I did not jump though. After all, I had expected it. I had lived in this house with these people long enough. They had kept me locked up like a rusting shack. Someone had been angry, someone had opened the door, someone had fought back and now I remembered.

It was me.

oԃB7