A Vignette of Neglect

I've been avoiding this place, the touch of the ghosts echoing across my hidden skin. I pull my sleeves down further and hold the bunched cuffs in my fists. My neck wishes for a scarf as the still air threatens unconsented kisses and promises a chill that'll never leave.

The door before me is a struggle to recognise. Wood warped, metal rusted, barricades... shifted. Squirrels croak urgent chatter like ducks trapped and squeezed. They answer my question with full bellies: the barricades kept them through winter.

One touch and the door crumbles, sodden splinter confetti framing the void. I reach inside slowly, fingers stroking the inner wall. The switch no longer powers the light, but something hairy materialises from the socket and I clutch my violated hand to my chest. Once, those spiders had been too scared to approach. I wonder who told them I'd left.

Wary steps carry me under the web of flaking paint. I've come too far to turn back, though navigating this room feels unfamiliar through the lens it helped me purchase. The darkness reaches for me like a lost child. I am not ready to be a parent. Cries rise from the scuffed floorboards beneath my shuffling hesitancy and bitter laughter drips from the bowing ceiling.

Orange dullness spreads throughout--a much delayed response. But then, my own processing speed is nothing to boast. That's why I'm so late returning, after all.

The warmth of the bulb's glow does nothing to shift the chill edge to the voices I can't hear. Whispered triumphs ripple from neatly arranged shelves, the skulls humming sorrows from half-mouths.

Bathed in amber, thick layers of tape hold boxes closed against the revealing nature of open eyes. There aren't many boxes left, and those that survived have become painted by the hand of decay, dampness seeping through the corners. A vignette of neglect. I daren't touch them for fear of losing them completely, though I struggle to remember what I'm protecting. Unstuffed animals watch me with the same question cracking their glazed-over stares.

Instruments of a skeleton band lie with cases unzipped; my nails shredded from my haste to see them again. The skin of the tambourine is still dappled with acne, and the trumpet is only missing two of her buttons I swore I wouldn't push. My guitar leans against the ash-stricken wall with heartstrings frayed and out of tune. I pluck a few and the old aches fill the room. The drums are black and blue, the bass difficult to work from, and the flute got the wrong side of the story. At least the recorder never failed, preserving what I'd forgotten had been played.

Pages of notes from an old agony are scattered, ink smudged into pawprints, dropped into droppings. I am grateful to the rats who I once shunned from these walls. Truth was said to be ugly, but their twitching whiskers give warning the lies never offered. I wonder how different this place would feel if I hadn't left my rose-tinted glasses behind.

The moths have done what they can, but I've come too soon to sweep up the dust. I'm tempted to leave them to their banquet and devour my memory of this place again, but rotten fruit doesn't make a healthy plate. I drink in the tears that cling to the air, condensing on blacked-out windows.

I sling the sack from my shoulders, its boldness of colour wrong for this place, and I begin to take my fill.

Tambourine.

Trumpet.

Drums.

Bass.

Flute.

I promised I'd play the whole song to them tomorrow.

A ping echoes with the final flick of the light-switch as the guitar strings snap in the loneliness I seal behind me.