Fiction for a Friday

(Fiction for a Friday (or whatever day) borrowed shamelessly from Video Meliora, who does it so well.)

They had left that morning, in a flurry of good-byes and parcels and promises of postcards, and she had the run of the place. The to-do list was hardly onerous : taking in the garbage cans; watering the plants; feeding the dog. After ticking off each item, she had slouched in front of the TV with a bowl of ice cream and spent several hours dozing through a Happy Days marathon. When she finally shook off her lethargy, the sun had set and the blue light of the television flickered on the walls and glinted off the windows.

The house, so full of life earlier, now stood somber and empty. She hesitated at the top of the stairs and considered whether she should close the door to the master bedroom. The room was shrouded in a gloomy twilight, and she felt a strange reluctance to reach in and grasp the doorknob. This is silly, she thought, shaking herself. There's nothing in there. It's just me and the house.

She strode to the door and slammed it shut. The walls shook and the crash reverberated after the silence of the day. That'll show 'em. I'm here. It's just me and the house.

Me and the house.