My fingers skim the white keys of my family’s old piano. I used to imagine myself playing something beautiful, extraordinary even but I never learned how to play it. Tears run off my face dropping onto the piano’s keys. I wipe my green eyes and look around. I can still see the white tile floors and white curved staircase, professionally done paintings of nature, gray walls. Our whole house was always kept tidy and smelt of random lavender pine sol. But then everything snaps back into reality and I see what’s left of our old house, ash, black residue, dust. All those names match the current state of our old residence. When I say our, I mean my family and I. I haven’t seen my family in a while. Sometimes I wonder when they’ll come home. When they’ll notice that I’m still here. I’m home waiting. Waiting for the day they’ll come home. The day they’ll be able to embrace me once again. Until that day I’ll always be waiting.
Sometimes I wish that they could hear me. That they would just hear what I’m saying and maybe they’d come back. I dream of the day when they see me. I can’t wait until they see how much more mature I am now. They’d regret leaving me all alone and moving to another state. They’d regret forgetting me here at home. Everything would be okay if they came back. But they won’t come back. I know it in the back of my mind. I just can’t admit it. It’s too painful. I haven’t left my home since the fire. Since that blazing inferno took everything. Swallowed everything up and spat it back out as ash. Instead of sitting here sulking I decide to go outside. I make my way toward the front door but something in my head tells me I cannot go outside.
It says “You don’t belong there anymore. You must stay home until daddy comes back to get you just like he said he would” and just like that the urge to go outside fades.
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