The Lemon Avenue

 

A dilapidated house sat in the middle of nowhere, the walls have deteriorated through years of neglect, the roof was damaged by elements of lies and deception. It was a four-walled dungeon hidden behind the guilty eyes of the damned fools who tried to salvage its existence.

As the howling of birds succumbed into the darkness, a soft cry permeated through the algid atmosphere, it was a woman. Her sobs pervaded the desolated prison, she felt helpless, she felt alone and misunderstood.

 

Chained and fettered in hell, immured within a deceptive hedge, she cried as her life crumbled in front of her, not being able to choose the path to freedom, constrained into a life of endless pretense, driven by guilt and sympathy.

 

She was a prisoner.
She was alone.
No one cared. No one listened. She wanted to get out, but she was trapped in her own mind.

 

As she helplessly tried to get up, a warm unfamiliar touch embraced her eluding heart, a touch beyond the realm of right and wrong, a touch she could never resist. It felt like home for a moment, it tasted like freedom. It was the love her heart has always yearned for. She closed her eyes, she let it melt her away. She let the fire consume her.

 

 

She closed the door behind her.