illusory perfection

When I drive past the house, mornings on my way to work, it stands out. The front lawn is always perfectly cut and green, the bushes and hedges trimmed, and the flowers beds planted just so, blooming just one day earlier than all of the other gardens in the neighbourhood. Although the house isn't new, it looks fresh and, any wear and tear is unnoticeable with a yearly paint of coat and required maintenance.

What is noticeable, however is that the interior is always dark. I can never see any lights on, and if there are, they are flashing or intermittent, almost like an SOS.

One morning, I notice the front door wide open. I swings in the wind, and if it weren't for the fresh coat of forest green paint, you would think the house was abandoned. Curious, I slowly pull up in front of the house. As I make my way up the front walk, I see one of the curtains, normally pulled tight across the front window is hanging loose, exposing the darkness of the interior. I knock on the flapping door, quietly at first, and then louder. "Hello?" I say timidly, then louder when there is no reponse. Satisfied that any inhabitant would have been properly notified of my presence, I enter.

The smell is overwhelming and I wonder why I didn't notice it at the threshold of the house. It smells like rotting wood and wet mould. As my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, the scant natural light let in by the ripped curtain reveals a path of broken glass, blackened patches of carpet and leads to a shockingly destroyed couch. The couch is in a cream floral pattern that harkens to the mid seventies and is riddled with holes edged in black. They look like very large burn marks and some are so deep you can see the woody skeleton that lies within.

I back out of the room slowly. I don't want to see the rest. The destruction inside is so shocking, I can't imagine what goes on to leave it in that state. And I don't want to.