A Dirty Place.


It was musty before I cleaned the place. Each stair was draped in a blanket of dust. I walked up them, making footprints behind me and rolled my eyes. I could smell the lingering odor of fesus in the air. I questioned how he could have lived here; how he could close his eyes knowing that the piles and piles of dirty inside out clothes could suffocate him. I walked towards the kitchen where the floor was beginning to turn a weird shade of yellow. Brown liquid was dripping out of the broken clogged sink. I was afraid to question. Walking back to living area, there was a small pile of crumpled up tissues laying on the ground. I wondered what the story was behind those tissues. Was he crying as he finished the bottle of Jameson that was turned over on its side? Was he wondering why life has given him such curve balls? Was he scared of what the future held? Was he going through old pictures, reminiscing on the good times when the people were real and the times were good? Drips of alcohol stained the white paper surrounding the pictures in the album. A frozen memory of him and his brother looked back at me. His smile was the biggest I’d ever seen as he lightly held a can of Coors Light in his hand. It was winter because they were wearing sweatshirts and they were at a bar with many people I didn’t recognize around them. He was the happiest I’d ever seen him. That man in the picture would never have left this place like this. That man cared about himself. That man had a heart. I looked out the dirty window of the apartment and wondered where he could be. What he was doing, but I hope whatever he is doing, I hope he was happy.

I had to write about a place I’d been before, I think I am going to turn this into something. I wrote this in my creative writing class. You’re probably going to see alot of stuff from my class. 

Sarah.

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