The Dark, Dark House
In houses with secrets, it is always very dark.
In the dark, dark night in a dark, dark forest there was a dark, dark pathway.
A dark, dark bird swooped down over the dark, dark pathway and at the end of this dark, dark pathway; there was a dark, dark house with a dark, dark porch.
On the dark, dark porch, there was a dark, dark door with a dark, dark handle.
Turning the dark, dark handle and into the dark, dark room there was a dark, dark staircase.
Up the dark, dark staircase, there was a dark, dark hall, and down the middle of the dark, dark hall, there was a dark, dark room.
In this dark, dark room there was a dark, dark cupboard.
Opening the dark, dark cupboard there was a dark, dark drawer and in this dark, dark drawer, there was a dark, dark key.
The key lay inconspicuous between other things of no specific use.
The head of a Barbie doll, its hair tangled into an unmanageable knot.
A baseball, streaked muddy brown and frayed on the edges. A sticky sweet wrapper folded in onto itself. A receipt for unknown items, so old the ink faded from the shiny paper. A red, wooden carved heart with the letters B.R.
A Barbie shoe made of faded pink plastic, the heel missing. A lonely dirty grey sock stretched out across the bottom of the drawer.
A flashlight with its lens cracked in the form of a smiley face.
In a far corner a ring with its sparkle and glitter of a happier time now dull and faded. A small black, black box, locked.
The key fit perfectly into the black, locked box. The key turned and the lid creaked open slowly.
A soft melodious piece of music filled the dark, dark room. The sound of a spring winding down ominously, it was barely audible, the music of Brahms overpowering it, hiding it.
The tiny ballerina teetered on one skinny leg, her legs forming the shape of a four, spinning around and round, round, and round. Her scrawny arms stretched high above her head, criss-crossing awkwardly. Her plastic blonde hair tied in a bun behind her head. Her green eyes were too big for her face, and her lips scarlet red.
A photo fluttered out and in the smiley face glare of the flashlight a girl stared back.
Her long hair hung shiny and straight down, past her shoulders. Her face was radiant and her eyes bright. She looked up happy into the lens of the camera, her smile wide and cheerful.
She was young, perhaps eight years old, innocent, and trusting. In her green eyes, there was a hope for a better future, with an optimism that promises made would be fulfilled, an expectation that they do love her after all.
Her arm was in a cast, perhaps from a fall whilst participating in an adventurous activity together with them. Her face bruised and her one eye black, her nose skew, and her lips too swollen.
A note from the Author:
The first part of this story includes the ancient dark, dark tale, which will take you back to the days of an innocent, believing and hopeful youth.
The second part with its descriptive, almost meditative tone is to lull you away from the choppy, fast pace of the first part—almost to make you feel relaxed and then unfortunately the last blow, which sole purpose is to shock you.
Sadly, child abuse happens too often and if more people took the time to pay attention, then children, all children, could look forward to a future filled with joyful optimism.
Copyright © LYNETTE FERREIRAAll rights reserved.Lynette Ferreira holds all copyright-related rights, including the right to publish the work, to make derivative works of it, to distribute it, to make profit from it, and to forbid these uses by any non-authorized people/person/entity, thus being entitled to take legal action against infringement.