By Ella Coulson
There is a place
Not too far from here
It belongs to a family of units
Four squat, brown-haired girls
The sort you would not look twice at if you passed in the street
A living room perpetually shrouded in bone-idle light; four walls that never quite make it past the three-p.m. slump
A door to the outdoors in the main bedroom—swollen and engorged, it refuses to sit flush in its frame
Whilst this room has borne witness to an anthem of true crime
anxieties never seeped under the door that would not shut
You might find men just as mean at the dinner table
That smudge of a unit has not bared its teeth at me in years
I take the long way home, lest it sees me
And whilst my feet stay planted on this side of town
I’ve paced its halls religiously
The long weeds groaning through the cracks in the pavers strangle my ankles
A quick snip with the garden shears, I’m sure
But I fear when I brush them away I may find them tattooed there
Alone I pace the halls
The others are out
They will be back soon
We have unfinished business
When the grumble of their cars sounds on the mauled bitumen outside, there will be a party
I will turn twenty-one
The arms of the clock will shudder to life
The living room light will work
I will remember to change the bulb
We will paint broad strokes of periwinkle across the walls
There will be cake with candles
I will not pack my bags when no one is home
The party is starting soon
I must face the eyes of the house that has been looking for me
The engine turns over
Briny water chokes me
The river has infected the freeway
Days later I arrive on land, streetlights winking at me
The grooves made by my car wheels are waiting for me
My palms are damp around my tightly wrapped present
I’m sure I RSVP-ed
The invitation in the glovebox is yellowed and curling
Number 4 looms above me
Shiny chrome windows a uniform screen
Dust from the work site coats my feet
A single fencepost sways enquiringly, the brittle remnants of a balloon tied with twine
I stare at the housing development
No one stares back