There was something about coming home to an empty house. Devoid of people and the memories created, a house couldn’t tell you any story. The little girl closed the door behind her and stared at the silent walls. It was home, but she was alone there. They would come and join her a little later, but she relished her solitary company. It helped her think.
She moved around and looked at things in a different light. The books, the walls, the furniture.. she smiled at the photo frames that reminded her of a happy time. She then thought of all those quarrels and the noise. Those awful screams were always there in all her nightmares. That was not how she wanted them to be. But they were there, nevertheless. She used to think a lot, about life before and all those times she cried to her pillow. Then she saw a flicker of movement.
She shuddered thinking she wasn’t alone. Maybe she had company after all. It wasn’t a very welcoming thought. She followed the movement to a plastic ball – one of those toys that were always lying around carelessly. The shadow made her laugh and cry. It made her laugh as a reminder of a game at the beach six years ago. The cry choked it’s way out by her carefully composed demeanor. She then gave up the act of holding it together and sat down breaking into a sob. When she finally stopped, she looked at the clock. It was time.
She then washed her face by the mirror and tried not to think too much about the reflection. She then dried her face and felt a familiar warmth upon touching the cold floor. It was just another day, the storm would blow over. That’s what she would say to herself every single time. There was nothing she would take back, pleasant or unpleasant. They had made her who she was. She wanted to hold on to that person she had become for a little longer. If lurking in the shadows helped her do it, she would. But being invisible didn’t make you disappear. It erased you from life.