The house is empty.
I begin at the front door. Knock. When it is unlocked, I pass through.
This house is empty. The lights are all off. The floor lies. The ceiling wavers. There is no one here.
The foyer. I grip the molding, smear my fingers across the wall, let them fall away, then grip it again.
My house is empty. The power must be out. The clocks are black. The hall stretches ahead. I walk, forward or backward, I cannot tell.
The kitchen. The tiles would gleam. The cabinets hide nothing. The sink does not drip, drip, drip, drip, drip, deafening.
My home is empty. No body paid the bills. No body painted the walls. The grit scratches at my skin.
The living room. The couch cushions are unimpressed, untouched. The curtains are pulled back, and the cross frames vacancy.
My mind is empty. No thoughts to bounce, to break windows. The ricochets are absent. Standards and mementos, none.
The dining room. Slick, the table, lacquered to match nothing; everything. The chandelier is still. A meal, uncooked, unserved.
I am empty. Satiation unnecessary, but, empty; fact. Steps.
I do not have to exist outside of this. And what is this all but a collection of objects gathered from a lifetime of alternatives not taken?
The staircase. Decide.
Gravity chooses, but the creak is so goddamn loud, and I wish to continue, but it is so fucking loud, my toes are barely touching the panel, but fuck, the wood bends itself before I even apply pressure, such a fucking loud creak, shut the fuck up, the creak, the fucking creak, shut the fuck up, like a goddamn whip cracking, like a fucking lightning bolt shooting into a body, shut the FUCK up, but it won't, and I have to not, I cannot, what the hell am I supposed to, let it creak, let it drown the entire house in sound, no, fuck that, and I have the resolve to stamp it all the way down, shove my foot through the board entirely, break it krakk chak snaap crrang, the jagged shards cutting my ankles, blood flowing down each step until it reaches the bottom, encasing the basement not in sound but in death, mine own, shining red where there was only black before, I have every intention, but, no, fuck that, and my foot instead rises, does not fall, steps upwards, no creaking boards damning me, solid ground, and with one, comes another, and gravity resigns itself to defeat.
The house is empty, except for me.
I stand on the bed.
From here, I can see the stars.