The window


The dark red curtains stay drawn, day after day the only signs of life an occasional twitching of the drapes. Inside the door the post piles up as weeds grow in the front yard. The neighbours walking past each day shake their heads as they contemplate the fate of the occupant of the red brick bungalow.

The woodwork around the windows, paint long ago flaked off shows signs of rot, the whole property having an air of decay, neglect. They called the police once, convinced that something terrible had happened, something tragic within the house, but when they arrived they had been greeted by the occupant.

A couple talked as they walked past “What could bring someone to a point where they care so little about where they live?” If only they knew the torments of a mind twisted by guilt, by anger, by fear, by the savage, bitter darkness of depression…if only they knew…

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