Bridge's House

"Aunt Bridge?" she called through the screen. The door itself was wide open, even though the air was chilly with fall. Shelly shielded her eyes with her hand, peering in through the dusty screen. "Hello? Aunt Bridge? Are you in there?"

Shelly glanced over her shoulder down the street, looking for someone, anyone, she might be able to call out to in case of an emergency - maybe someone broke in. Maybe the worst had happened and Aunt Bridge had some sort of medical emergency... as if that made any sense. Why would a medical emergency lead to the door standing open at 5pm in September. What Shelly was really looking for, down that tiny street, was a sense of regularity. Something to re-establish reality.

Lark street was lined with almost-identical houses, as though they had all been built from the same Make-a-house Kit. They were each painted a different color, but they were all very neat and trim. Lawns were mowed. A couple of houses had flags over their doors, one had a carefully tended rosebush prominently displayed. One even had a small statue of a child squatting next to a smaller statue of a frog. But the houses were alike inbuild and in the care taken of them. The driveways had different cars, if they had cars at all, but were all free of debris. The cars sitting in the debris-free driveways most likely worked. Insdie, the houses would be more or less neat and clean. The air would be breathable. The rooms themselves functional.

And then there was this house. Aunt Bridge's House.

It was the corner house, which made it stand out even more, if that was possible, given the bright shade of Barbie pink it had been painted. Even though the paint was peeling and chipped, it had lost none of it's color. The house itself was falling apart. Two shutters hung on loose hinges, and a window on the side of the house was actually barded up with boards, the boards themselves plywood stolen from a construction site across town, and half covered in spray paint.

The yard, however, was in such a state that the house was hardly noticable. It was clutteres with birdbaths, half begun gardening projects that involved deep holes and shovels still stuck in the earth. Piles of rocks , tin cans hainging from sticks and strings, and various other "Art" were scattered all over the place. This was exactly what Shelly had loved about Aunt Bridge's house when she was a little girl. And now that she was an adult she could see the danger in it, the disorganization, the senility, the mess, the craziness. It looked as though the bracken in back of the houses had actually vomited the unsavory parts of the woods and wilderness onto Aunt Bridge's property, and no one had cleaned it up yet.

Shelly pushed open the screen door and walked inside. It was, as usual, a cluttered mess. Shelly held her reath, trying to postpone the unavoidable scent of pent up air and dust and cooking and inscence and mold she would inhale as soon as the needed to take her first breath. "Aunt Bridge?" she called again. "Are you home?"

The light switch did nothing. Shelly gritted her teeth, wondering how long Aunt Bridge's light had been out and how long she would go without replacing it. The old woman might live years in a house with no working lightbulbs, and then be surprised and offended when someone mentioned the fact that she didn't have to live in the dark.

Maybe this is it, she thought. Maybe this is when I walk into a room and find Aunt Bridge... what> Had died in her sleep? Had suffered a heart attack? Hung herself in the closet? Had suffocated under a pile of fallen... junk?

Shelly stepped around a pile of books in the bathroom and peeked into the shower. Nothing. She walked carefully down the hall into the bedroom, dodging a trunk filled with rocks and sticks and a storage container of... scarves? Were those brightly colored scarves? Shelly peeked her head into the bedroom.

Aunt Bridge lay on the bed, eyes closed. A book spread open on her chest, her reading glasses askew on her face. Half of her grey-blond hair escaped the simple braid she wore each day, and frizzed around her face. The face was... slack. Shelly strained to see a sign, any sign, that her Aunt was still breathing.

"Aunt Bridge?" she whispered. "Bridget? Are you seeping?" Shelly took a step closer to the bed and reached out to take a pulse... if she remembered her first aid it would be right there, on the neck...

Her Aunt jerked back in surprise and Shelly shrieked in startled irritation.

"Oh, Shelly! How long have I been asleep?" the older woman asked, straining to sit up.

"Jesus! Aunt Bridge! You left the door wide open! I thought something happened to you!"

Aunt Bridge fixed her glasses and closed her book, folding the page back to mark it. "Well that makes no sense," she said. "Why would the door being open mean anything had happened to me?"

Shelly shook her head and turned back towards the kitchen. "Where do you keep your light bulbs?" she shouted.