The House

It is 5am now and I feel sweaty. I've not been able to sleep lately; no surprise there. I've been doing a lot (or lack thereof) to prepare for the exams, meeting the boyfriend, working at the grills; so many commitments, so little time.

But just moments ago it happened again. It has come to find me.

I saw the house one more time.

Grey slate roof with few specks of lichen growing on its top. Built of very sturdy timber wood and painted in white, the first few things you notice are its funny little door and the tiny window that faces the street. I don't see anything else other than the house, the tiny white front gate, the white picket fence that runs around the house and thistles in the garden.

Thistles.

There is a gravel path that leads from the front gate and white postbox to the front door and it is covered in weeds. On either side, grass and thistles fill the garden that hasn't been mowed for ages.

The door handle is bronze and has a funny face on it. There are no curtains; you can see straight into the house from the street on a sunny day. Sometimes the house has a green door; other times it is red. But the shape of the house is always the same; rickety and run down.

I have seen this house again and again over the past year or so, sometimes night after night, sometimes not at all for months on end. And often, this house appears with a story, and the interior always changes with the story, be it Persian rugs when there was a fat man sitting on the couch feasting on roast duck and watching the TV, or tons of fine China sitting on quaint table tops when there was an old lady dusting away continuously at a book such that its cover had become worn from all the dusting, or a hay floor and pigs inside, making the most awful noise and smell, complaining to me that there was a parrot hidden in one of the hay piles.

The interior of the house has never been the same in each of my dreams, but the exterior has never changed. I've always seen a quaint white house surrounded by thistles.

I was walking towards this house, yet again, as I have been in all the reoccurring dreams I have had of this place. I can't see my hands or feet; only my eyes seem to travel towards it. The door opens with a click, as it always does, and I step into a very brightly lit room with candles.

~

Over in a corner, there is a fat cat eating cream puffs. The cat beckons me to approach it and sit on the green cushion that lies next to it on the floor. I hesitate a little, looking around to try and make sense of the interior of the house. The roof is decorated with carvings of people and a huge globe of the world hangs from one of the chandeliers. In every corner, there are candelabras full with red candles that burn in the morning sunshine that comes through the quaint window. I casually wander around the room looking at all these items until the cat squeaks.

A squeaking cat. Great. Just what I need.

~

Flashbacks. I see a man advancing towards me with a belt in his hand. Bright lights and a very strong metallic sound fill the surroundings, and as he gets closer I feel my stomach cave in. SMACK.

Spirals of green and yellow colours. I can't remember what happened in the next few minutes of my dream but suddenly I'm back staring at the mantle piece with the fat cat still stuffing its face with cream puffs.

~

The green cushion is soft and slightly smelly. I can't make out the odours but it isn't pleasant. The fat cat extends its paw towards me; it’s holding out a cookie.

~

More flashbacks. I am now underwater, the house and fat cat has disappeared from sight. I can barely make out the street light that hangs over the pool; it seems like I've sunk to the bottom of a swimming pool and nobody has come to save me.

My hands struggle to get me back up to the surface for a breath. I can't do this.

It seems too difficult.

~

Falling bricks. They are falling from the ceiling of the house, and I dodge to avoid them. Opening the front door, I realise how cold the door handle is.

Making a dash for the undergrowth, I see the fat cat sitting amongst the thistles. With a wave of its tail, it squeaks:

"想死"

~

I am panting on my bed. The sun is starting to rise, and my feet are tingling cold because I've pulled up the blanket and exposed my toes to the cold morning air. Rushing to the fridge I pour myself a glass of milk and look at my hands.

They are shivering.