The House- Creative Writing

The House- Creative Writing
I moaned softly to myself as I compelled my battered legs to carry me
for the last time along the over-grown garden path, which I had once
skipped down so carelessly as a young boy. I sighed as I surveyed the
acres; the once beautifully manicured, but now utterly disheveled
expanse of garden stretching before me. My gaze rested on the immense
oak tree that cut into the landscape, once majestic and verdant but
now withered and dieing. I apprehensively forced my eyes to look
directly ahead of me and focused them upon the house that had once
given me so much happiness as a boy. I mocked myself for thinking that
I could bring those memories back. I let my eyes rove over the house,
visualizing the rooms behind the now cracked and distorted windows. I
felt my heart begin to beat faster as I saw the one I was looking for.
It was now boarded up; concealing the room I had come to see. My
vision momentarily flittered over the incongruous, gaudily coloured
car that had brought me so far, but there was no turning back; not
now, not ever. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and picked my way
across the uneven path and up towards the front door, stumbling once
or twice but never faltering. The door was hanging off its hinges;
there was no need for a key.
I stepped through the doorway. I put up my hands to brush away the silky cobwebs, relishing the spun-silk disintegrating at my touch. The floorboards creaked after every leaden step I took. I took another deep breath to steady my nerves, and I entered the grand ballroom. The room was gloomy and damp, I looked up to face the chandelier, but the ceiling was bare save for a gaping, splintering hole in the ceiling whsere it once hung. It must have been taken when they came. I examined the whole room carefully and trod cautiously forwards. Glass crunched under my feet. I brushed away some dust, and sat on the aged couch in front of the old fireplace. I had a flashback from when I was a boy: I saw mother knitting in her large rocking chair, and father, he and I were roasting marshmallows in the great fireplace. This picture brought tears to my eyes, but I fought them back. I couldn?t have cried, I thought I was past that stage now, but still the tears kept coming and I took my handkerchief, blew my nose, wiped away the tears, and struggled on up the curving stairs. I shuffled forwards examining the various paintings hung on the wall that I remembered so very well. They were worthless in anyone else?s eyes, but mine. The wall was old and crusty, the wall paper was tearing off it in various places and it looked so frail that even I could have knocked it over. The musty green colour was fading into a dull grey, and the curtains had been torn down and lay in a large heap on the floor. I stumbled up the last flight of stairs, and stared blankly ahead of me. My eyes twitched as I looked down the rows of doors, down to the very last door, the one I had been waiting so long to see. The corridor seemed endless and I had to stop for breath every few steps, I could feel my heart beginning to strain, I leant against the wall for some support. ?It was not far now, it was not far now.? I still stumbled on, and finally I had reached the door, my trembling fingers reached out and enclosed the brass handle. I turned the knob, and with the last of my energy I pushed, hard. The door creaked and swung open. My heart lurched, and I fell to the floor gasping for air. ?No, No, not now, please?.?

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