The House

Please, come in. He's happy to have you...

The house is human; human is the house.

Bones are nailed together at precarious angles, tearing at the rug as the chairs are dragged across the living room. Beauty marks and scars decorate the couch, the skin stretched tightly over cushions, each cushion pulsing and rippling as blood resettles underneath your weight.

Sinewy tendons and muscles drape dramatically over the windows, falling into curtains that block out the midday sun. A pale heart perches on the rocking chair of bone, drained of its blood, deprived of its life. It is tilted at an angle just so, a decorative pillow in its new purpose.

A stomach, hollowed and hardened, sits on the side table, vertebrae composing the legs to lift the ribcage table to couch-height. The bowl contains fruit - a rotting apple, a weeping pear, a banana turned to sludge. Flies buzz lazily around the bowl, landing arbitrarily as they please. The bones of a hand are arranged and sealed together with resin, resting on the side table, a cup of coffee long gone cold placed atop.

Stomach skin is stretched thin to shield the bulb of the lamp from view; an eyeball, shriveled and cloudy, hangs from inside - a single tug on it will illuminate the room. Hair, brunette and blonde, is woven together into a basket, handles and all, nestled in the corner on the floor.

Knick-knacks jumble together in the basket: a small pair of glasses with purple and blue frames, a worn teddy bear, a wedding ring, a pacifier. Near the front door dangle car keys and sunglasses, hanging on fingers that protrude from the wall.

As you move to exit, your hand rests on the doorknob, a multi-faceted resin sphere. Tiny teeth reside inside, immobilized within the material, set as though still within the jaw they once occupied. The floor creaks, wood shifting as someone treads nearby.

A man emerges from another room, brushing his fingertips fondly across the blood stains in the doorframe, deep maroon letters that spell out “love” in descending fashion.

“Aren’t they beautiful?” He asks you, looking around the room with pride and admiration frolicking joyfully behind his irises.

“Who?” You ask, voice shaking so hard it seems but an instant from shattering and sliding across the skin-and-hair carpet.

“My family. My wife and children. My house.”

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