When she opened the front door the dim light made her squint for any sign or recognition. She tried to flick the lights on, but nothing happened. It was not really a surprise to her that the power had been turned off eventually. As her eyes slowly adjusted she could make out the layout of the room. The couch was a green sectional. She remembered nights of curling up on the nook of the arm with a book and a blanket. Now there were holes worn through with dirt and unidentifiable stains throughout. It sat against the gray wall covered in crayon marks that scribbled out a message only the young could understand. The brown clock hung on the wall stopped forever at 9:36: the very moment of the event. The worn leather arm chair was dad’s. She slowly caressed the back, directly where his head spent so many evenings resting against. A train table full of toys sat by the window with a map of the world taped above on the wall to the left. A bench by the door held the coats and jackets of two toddler boys. She slowly bowed her head in silent prayer. She looked for any memento she could take with her. Most everything had already been salvaged through by squatters. It had been years since she had been back to her parent’s house and she blamed herself for not doing more. The musty and thick air clung to her as she moved through out the first floor. Feeling the roughness of the walls, she flinched as a splinter hit her finger. She pulled her arm back and paused to wipe the blood droplets and noticed that some blood was on the wall. Now she was a part of the history of this demise.

Quick write prompt: Teachers Write