She lives in a broken home that falls apart more and more everyday. 

You could never guess, though, if you were just walking past the tall house protected by a picket fence and a garden. The sidewalk leading up to the gleaming white door wasn’t cracked at all, and no weeds were poking between the concrete slabs. The windows were covered by black shutters, and the chimney puffed out smoke from a fireplace within. 

You would be jealous of this house, with its large and beautiful exterior. You’d think of it as a dollhouse; a perfectly crafted mansion for its perfectly crafted doll family.

You would be wrong. Wrong to be jealous, wrong with your impression, and completely wrong about everything else you would ever associate with this house. 

The picket fence is there to keep the children from running away. The garden has been long since forgotten, and now the only resident of the dried up patch of rotted soil is a sad excuse for a single blade of grass. The sidewalk was a mystery in itself -- how it had not cracked, you would wonder (if you knew), being the recipient of thrown bodies, glass shards, and various rusted tools. The absence of weeds and abundance of cleanliness made sense, of course, with all the bleach that had been used to clean the blood and (sometimes) guts off. The front door? Accidentally sprayed with that same bleach, so now it was a blinding white that made your eyes burn from the aroma when you got too close. 

It was red, she would tell you, if she were allowed to speak.

Those windows -- 

No windows. You would keep listening, and she would keep talking, her anger and sadness overruling her fear of being caught. It’s cold, so cold. Always winter inside house. 

They never cleaned glass inside, no one goes near windows. Would not see outside, anyway, shutters are shut. ‘Shut the shutters’, they said. Would laugh if allowed. No sunshine or happy in house. No laugh, no smile, no fun. Just winter and sad. 

And pain, she continues, rubbing her arms and shuffling her feet. Her eyes fog up as she stares at the house, and you want to gently take her across the street and make her turn away so she wouldn’t have to see it anymore. But she won’t let you. 

One of -- she stops herself and takes a deep breath before suddenly collapsing on the ground and letting out a sob. You drop down next to her in surprise and confusion, but she doesn’t let you comfort her. 

One of them -- us -- 7, crushed by beam fell on top of her. They no care, said step over it. Her. Beam and 7. 8 died when back door fell on him. 

You almost want to tell her to stop as her poor grammar and vocabulary still manage to paint vivid, violent images in your head. But you can’t muster up the courage, so like a good person admiring a house from outside, you continue listening to the story of the lives within. 

3 tried to run. Only time. Try to stop him, but window fell. We watched. We cried. Got hurt for crying, made us look at 3. He had -- 

She reaches up to her neck and brushes her throat, where you can just barely see a jagged line, drawn with dirt or mud or maybe blood, across her windpipe. Your own hand crawls to your neck and you gulp, understanding how 3 was kept from escaping.

No pretty walls, she starts again, then shakes her head. No walls. Empty. One room. No stairs, just lah-ters. When we do bad, they take us up lah-ter. Break floor with us, see how long floor holds us. Not long anymore. 

She turns and her shattered gaze finds your eyes. You feel yourself shiver as she stares deep into your soul -- your soul, you realize, that’s kind of like a house with a decent exterior, and a nice, cozy interior. A good house, a strong house that cares for you, with a good family that does the same. 

They hate us, so house hates us. House falls on us. House hurts us. 

Her soul is broken, like her house. Her heart is empty, like her house. Her eyes will never see anything worse than the inside of that house, her ears will never hear anything worse than that damn house whispering -- no, shouting -- its plans to kill and maim.

The house has given up on her, so she’s given up on that house.