The House And The Girl

• Maya Haggstrom, Grade 10
• Short Story
• 2021

The cloying scent of fresh dried paint pervades the air as she puts her hand on the front door, soft fleshy palms and fat stubby fingers push it open, and she shuffles inside.

Pictures and frames line shelves on the walls, and as the girl continues her journey, two people stand side by side behind her, watching her move slowly through the house. The girl waddles on in her tiny pink pyjamas, brushing her hand along red-velvet curtains. She nears the edge of a looming staircase, and it stares hopefully at her, beckoning to her. Her tiny body gives in and begins the steady crawl up, wincing each time she swings and misses the next stair.

Arriving at the top, she clenches the balustrade, knuckles white, and continues down the hall on two feet. Suddenly, Mum’s solid hands grip her, and she is thrown up in the air. Her squeals echo round the house, before she slams her feet on the floorboards again. Legs sturdier than before, longer and stronger, brace her to the ground, keeping her from falling. She screams and chases Mum’s hands round winding corridors, racing through a living room stuffed with recliners, before collapsing to the ground and heaving a gasping laugh.

The women’s legs carry her blindly back to her room. She digs through her drawers, clothes flying everywhere, and lost in the ruckus, a tiny pair of pink pyjamas floats to the floor. A knock ruptures the silence, and she starts, turning, to find the doorway empty. It is just her in this house now. She trudges back out of her room, and leaps down the stairs, taking them three at a time. Back downstairs, past the fading, grimy red curtains, and into the bathroom. The woman stares at the mirror, as her body transfigures. Full rosy cheeks give way to sunken pools. Eyes sink into the hollows of her skin.

Hearing a joyous yelp, she slowly turns to see a child crawling through the corridors. Grabbing it by the arms, she throws it up into the air, planting a kiss on its face. It giggles benevolently, and toddles away. Struck with a bout of weariness, the elderly women sighs, hobbles towards the living room, and collapses onto a cracked and jaded recliner. Her hands come to rest in her lap, and she glances at them. As she does, they mould and warp. Swollen knuckles bear down on the sides of her raw fists. Weary fingers fumble. Veins pop through gnarled skin. Her head lolls and she stares around, a thick fog coating her thoughts.

Slowly rising, she limps towards the threshold of her house, each step heavier than the last. *Open the door. Close it with a soft click*. Outside, her footfall is light, unburdened. It carries her away from the drowsy exterior of the house, before bringing her to rest beneath a tree. A relieved sigh escapes her lips as she closes her eyes, and does not open them again.