REN… OH…. VASHUN….. I say it like a mantra over and over again…
renvasssshnn, slurring like a drunk.
Ren Oh Vah Tion… sounding similar to a U2 song that, actually, I fucking hate.
I say it like a Dalek would, wishing I could channel the destructive power of Davros and smile at the of my situation. Is it possible to hate a house in the same way you hate the trump’s hair? Or does feeling superior to a house make you dumber than a stump post?
I am staring at a wall, which is staring back at me blankly. How do I do this? Why am I doing it would seem a more logical question, but my mind skitters away from that like the cockroaches in the light of the bathroom at night.
The wall is a bland colour, like the colour of sick that has no defining characteristics of carrot and has been bleached by the sun. Here and there you can see damp crawling up, like the wall has pants and has just peed itself. The colour is similar to pee when I look closely, despite not wishing too. The smell sucker punches my nose as I lean in too close and I realise the wall hates me as much as I hate it and all it represents.
‘Fuck You wall,’ I sneer, because.
The sun disappears behind a cloud in the same way my love of life has while residing here, except I am not sure mine will ever return from the shadow. My soul is scorched lifeless from the emotional fight with this house as the church is from years of white patriarchy.
I have more feelings to relieve than the house does slugs, infesting the insides of the piece of shit. Probably. It is a pretty angry wall; an infuriated house actually, if the creaks and groans it makes all day and night are anything to go by, despite being no wind ever in the desolate hole in which it lurks like a tick on dog fur. The entire house is malevolent; whether it be neglect for so many years or whether it be demons I will never know. I suspect the latter. Infantile, puerile, drooling demons that can’t find their ass with both hands as they too would have left if they could.
I wonder if spitting on it would improve the aspect, or if it will just add to the piss damp. I decide that I should not waste the water on it… it has enough water already judging from the stench of mould that wafts never so subtly…. The bouquet of rot… eau-de-moul’dee: the next new thing just as soon as the Jenners think of it. Actually giving it some of my essence might make it use its powers against me even more than it has, destroying what tiny vestige of bright hope I have left after being trapped here for so long. And what if it spits back? Ick.
I am tempted to lean my ear against the wall to see if I can hear it breathing out some noxious foul thing, or if the desiccated corpses of ants and mounds of dust appearing overnight are just a manifestation of the physical decay that the house represents. Does the atmosphere lead me to think these strange thoughts, am I high on fungal spores, or am I truly mad? If I was crazy, why would I be questioning my sanity? If I was sane, why would I be thinking this renovation is a good idea?
I decide. There is only one way to renovate this haunted, horror house…..
Light a match, make sure it catches and walk away.
Perhaps even run.
And never, ever, look behind you….