Mental meanderings (living as if in a dream)

The smell of snails, fresh rain, decomposing leaves. Grass glows as it only does under ominous weather, as if to counter the oppression overhead. My school uniform scratches at my neck. A patch of trees and fern seperates our houses, but to my young mind the path connecting our yards is dark, secret, mysterious.

Daylight struggles weakly through dark swollen clouds, fluttering green leaves, a rain-spattered window (paint cracked on its old wooden frame), onto damp plaster walls. The patter of raindrops is a light flutter; the bare room defiantly resists being lit by the window, and the glass pane sucks heat from me when I'm in its weak radius of light. One of the loneliest sounds I know is that of a car driving past on wet asphalt.

Downstairs, patterned wool rugs try to warm hardwood floors, like a blanket too short to cover your feet. The musty smell of the antique player piano in the foyer. A ghostly howl of cold wind seeps through a poor seal somewhere. Iron radiators creak, and at night monsters lurk in the stretch of darkness between the back door and the outhouse.