Only Us Are Here

Atop a hill found by country roads is a cottage built from grey-blue stones. It's roof timbers bow beneath slate tiles, and it's always just one bad winter, one driving gale, away from collapse. The fireplace hasn't known warmth for generations; the chimney stack doesn't scribble smoke upon the sky; once a beacon for heartwarming happiness, or a signal for the lonely traveler. Within, they live; those who aren't missed, those who are forgotten. They watch and wait for those aura's seeking shelter, eagerly peering through windows missing their panes; listening for footfall upon their stony porch, eager for the rap, rap, rap, upon their weathered door. They crave the scent of life and that human touch.

That touch they can't share. Within their palace, the paintwork is chipped and chafed, the desiccated flakes of which drift around floors with broken boards; floral wallpaper is faded and peels in strips like sunburnt skin, obscuring the graffiti of lovers' declarations, and poorly drawn erotica. Chairs miss taking the weight of the inhabitants or the stranger; tables are missing plates and the clattering of cutlery. A sofa with its springs on view, like rusted ribs, doesn't offer comfort once taken for granted. Laughter and angry discourse are dead languages not heard, never discussed anymore.

Only the scampering of wildlife and the whistling of wind made themselves known throughout. Damp has replaced the aromas of everyday living: of old-fashioned cooking, of 40-a day habit, and not enough sex; instead the pervasive odour leaks from creaking frames and boards, its fetid linger caresses every room, everyday. It's been too long since anyone has come and pushed back at the decay. It has been too long since a soul has come to visit...us.