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