Chapter Text
This house was a prison.
It didn’t seem like it, and you probably shouldn’t call it that either since it was incredibly tone deaf and ignorant, but it’s true. It definitely felt like it.
The blackout curtains turned your bedroom into a cave, which was perfect for someone who’d rather die than wake up early. (Less of a hyperbole than people thought it was, you’d literally wrapped yourself in a blanket cocoon once when your alarm went off in high-school. You woke up at 11am sweaty, out of breath, confused, and being screamed at by your Mom.) When you finally kicked the comforter off, it frumped onto the floor like a defeated animal. The marble was cold against your feet. You made a mental note to buy slippers, something black, maybe velvet. You weren’t going to, obviously. But it was a nice thought.
The mansion was quiet in that gothic romance way: too much space, not enough people, and always cold. You could hear your own footsteps echo as you padded down the hallway in an oversized shirt and nothing else. It was your house. Pants were optional.
“Morning,” you said to no one, lighting a cigarette as you dragged your feet through the kitchen.
Sunlight cut through the tall windows, hitting the countertop where yesterday’s coffee cup still sat. You didn’t bother cleaning it. “Adds flavor,” you muttered, pouring new coffee into it anyway.
The kitchen was massive (granite, chrome, all that) like it was designed for hosting dinner parties. You mostly used it for caffeine and late-night cereal. There was a fancy espresso machine you didn’t know how to work. You’d watched a tutorial once, got bored halfway, and decided to buy a drip coffee maker instead. Espresso got you too wired anyway.
You took your coffee and cigarette to the balcony, leaning on the railing. The garden below was still wild even though you had a gardener who showed up once a week.
He was a big, burly blonde guy with a sunny smile and rosy cheeks. You also rarely saw him dressed in anything that wasn’t a hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. You admittedly enjoyed his company much more than you’d like too. He loved to talk about his kids, and his wife. You didn’t have much to say to relate to him in that department (obviously) but he seemed to appreciate you listening.
You leaned over the railing now to look down at your walls. Roses climbed them, and ivy overtook everything. The gardener said he figured you liked it that way. ‘Pretty, but kind of unkempt.’ He was right.
You leaned back and blew the smoke out toward the sun.
Your phone buzzed on the patio table. You leaned over to grab it without looking. It was a text from your friend Tiff:
how’s your morning been? discovered any malevolent beings living in your walls yet?
You replied:
feels more like i’m living in a gothic novel, just with less fog and isolation
She sent a string of laughing emojis. You ignored them and took another drag.
You’d inherited the place from your grandmother, a woman who’d worn black lace every day of her life and terrified the neighbors in a way you deeply respected. She left everything to you, which your parents were surprisingly fine with. They didn’t really need all the money anyway, and the whole “dark mansion” thing wasn’t their vibe.
You didn’t mean to stay here long after she passed. Just for a month, then one month turned into six. Then a year. And now… Here you were, drinking coffee on a balcony that overlooked several acres of “too much,” still wearing the same eyeliner you slept in.
After your second cup of coffee, you decided to do something productive. You spent ten minutes convincing yourself that thinking about doing something productive was productive. Then you spent another twenty scrolling on your phone.
At some point, you realized you’d been sitting in silence for hours. No music, no TV, just the faint hum of the fridge and the occasional car passing outside the gates.
It wasn’t bad. You liked being alone. You’d told yourself that enough times to almost believe it.
You stretched, flicked ash into a decorative bowl that probably cost more than your first car, and glanced at the clock. 2:47 p.m. “Okay forreal,” you said to yourself. “Time to be an adult.”
You weren’t. But you did take a shower, which felt close enough.
Afterward, wrapped in a towel, you wandered through the hallways again, dripping water on the polished floor, passing oil paintings and antique mirrors. You stopped in front of one of the front porch of the house, your Grandmother holding your pudgy little hand. Your thumb was lodged into your mouth while her free hand was stuck in a permanent wave. You didn’t remember the day this painting was referencing at all, but you did look pretty cute.
“If only you could see me now,” You joked dryly to your Grandmother’s visage.
The rest of the day went about how it always did. Music on low, more cigarettes and a little bit of green, half a sandwich for dinner, and a glass of something red you pretended was for “the aesthetic.”
By midnight, the house was dark except for the warm light from the TV flickering across the living room. You lay on the couch, legs tangled in a blanket, scrolling through messages you wouldn’t answer and memes you wouldn’t laugh at out loud.
You had everything you could possibly want—space, quiet, money, privacy.
And still, when the night stretched too long and the silence started feeling like static, you couldn’t help but think: This would be nicer if someone else was here.
You waved the thought away before it could stick, took another sip of wine, and muttered, “I’m fine,” like you were trying to convince yourself more than your throw pillows.