Decrepit

The rusty gate creaked open, beckoning towards a path of cracked stones; thick weeds blew in the chilly wind. The path led towards a worn house, its window’s barred and the chimney long stopped showing signs of a warm hearth. The wood of the abandoned house were covered with tangled ivy vines, snaking its way along the length of the house, but it still showed flakes of the bright red paint, like a faint ghost of what the building used to be.

The balcony creaked with every step and the wailing wind was the only company one could find. An old lamp hung on a bent hook, the glass broken and the shards on the ground. The brass doorknob squeaked with unused and protested at being opened. A light hung from the ceiling, its bulbs long burned out and the crystals were now dulled from the years of collected dust, forming a thick grimy layer. The wallpaper in the hallway hung limp from the wall, revealing the dull brown color underneath. The pictures laid smashed on the ground, hastily brushed to the side, showing pictures of a brighter time.

The hallway led to a few rooms, the slight breeze pushed one of the doors slightly ajar, revealing a mattress-less bed and the golden poles weathered rain and snow from a cracked window. Beside the bed lay a porcelain doll, its face smashed on the ground, its unfeeling eyes stared straight ahead, a smile plastered on its face. The sight of the room brought a wave of nostalgia.

It happened 47 years ago. Everyone was in bed, blissfully unaware of the events that would occur in the next few moments. At that time, the house was dry and the roof did its job protecting us. The window was clear, almost as if there was nothing between the outside and the inside. The plates were all sparkling and the utensils were polished. A soft downy mattress was under me with a warm quilt and the smiling doll in my arm. We all heard the explosion. As the sound intruded to my sleep, I began hearing the screaming and the crying. I rushed to the window, peeking outside and saw the ball of flames erupting from the nuclear plant nearby. We left the house afterwards, as did many others, letting our dear home crumble into ruins.

In the living room, a shadow of its once warm aura, I sat, watching the sun make its slow ascent in the sky, rocking in the rocking chair that once was my grandmother’s. The living room was a mess. Scraps of paper lay around in al corners and unidentifiable shards of objects were heaped together. The dark brown bookshelf was now collapsed; the books were strewn across the floor. As the sun appeared behind the clouds, its light filtered into the room, from the yellowed window and caught the crystal of the light in the hallway and I was basked in the colorful light of a rainbow.