When It’s Just A House, Not A Home Anymore

I’m a house, if you’re asking me what I am.


Source: photo diary

I miss my masters, I miss them around. They used to stay here during weekend reading books and playing with Milo, the male Bengal cat. They kept me clean and sweet scented with lemon room fragrance.

Every time they came back from work, they spent time drinking wine and chatting with laugh, sometimes they watched TV, sometimes they just took bath together.

In their first month of marriage, they left me for honeymoon somewhere in Mal… Maldis? Maldize? I’m not sure about the name, but it sounds like that.

When they came back from the honeymoon, I remembered the time they made such noise that I’ve heard many times before. Next morning I heard them giggled about something I couldn’t understand. They seemed happy.

After two years, their attitude began to change. They never got me cleaned, they always looked furious, they always seemed tired. Moreover when Milo died, they looked even worse.

They left home early in the morning to work, but usually one of them left earlier. They stayed outside until evening, they rarely got home together. I guess they often ate their dinner outside.

One of them came back when they drunk, sometimes she sang but she cried, sometimes he slammed the door and left again. I heard some noises, but it sounded like anger.

No more laughter, lemon’s scent, smell of their favorite wine.

After months, they never been around.

One day I heard her talking to him, “this house is not a home anymore…”

One day I had nothing inside me. They moved. They sold me.


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