I love my house. The curtains aren’t to my liking but I am still glad the paint on walls hasn’t changed. They have moved my favorite reclining chair to the basement and I am sitting here on this bean bag that my daughter loves. But I still love them, just can’t express.
10 years since our marriage, and she hasn’t aged at all. You know the kind of love they show in the movies? Yes, totally that, it was magical when we first met and it’s still magical everytime I see her. She’s seeing Mat these days. Reading her favourite magazine, cross-legged, she’s waiting for him to ring the bell. I can read minds, I swear.
Mat seemed like a nice guy when I first saw him. Honestly, he was. I was happy someone was taking my place in her life. He gave time to my daughter and seemed to genuinely care for her like a father should. And now? You know it. He ‘was’ the nice guy next door.
Me? I just died 5 years ago. They said I am going to hell. I knew. And then they sent me here, at my home. To roam and watch around. Can’t touch a thing, can’t say a thing. Just glide and watch. I was still figuring out what kind of hell is this? And then one day I realised I could sense impending danger to my family.
Cocaine has got better of him and his finances. Mat’s here, walked into our driveway with a shiny knife. She’s here waiting for him to ring the bell. And I am here, helpless, condemned to watch my family die in my personal hell.
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