The house reeks of old carpet and cat urine.
It was once a lovely place, plain to see, but definitely not now.
Not sure if I can breathe anymore, I am grateful for the second hand cigarette smoke billowing from my hosts, and oddly enough grateful for their company.
This roof over my head is better than nothing, I guess.
But then again, nothing doesn’t reek.
To my left, there was thankfully an open window and, with even greater gratitude, a screen on it. A humming bird, small and green, flittered on blurred wings over dark pink flowers that were petals opened towards the western sun.
My nostrils are stinging as if over some cage in some ill-maintained pet shop.
No drinking from the faucets of this place, the store bought water is closed tightly. It sits to my left on the dresser top that’s serving as a table for my laptop.
Despite my sadness, there is nostalgia here. There is precognition here.
My grandmother’s house had this scent, not so much the feline splatter as much as Chihuahua dog funk.
Full circle I’ve come. And I knew I would. There were nightmares.
It’s a hoarder’s house of empty soda cans, spots on the carpet you don’t dare stare too hard at, and piles of boxes, buckets and cans. Here reign very old lamps, and a very new television so out of place its ultra-real HD looks cartoonish.
The real high definition, in real life, is replete with olfactory stimulation, olfactory assault actually!
With pure intent, it is not with malice or contempt that this is written.
I should be grateful for it this night, for the next two, then it’s off to another friend’s place for several days.
Can I come back from this?
Does anyone ever come back?