Its nights are filled with chilled silence. There are no whispers of joy or rambunctious humour. Not even a slight warmth of laughter and any light of happiness.
Instead it is filled, filled to the brim with discontent and discomfort. The only sounds are echoes, of timid footsteps and whispered secrets. On Edge and Constantly Vigilant.
It is not a home.
Pictures of smiles and laughters fill the house. They show adventures with goofballs; capturing the moments of carefree and fun.
These pictures are lies.
There is no family; there is a household.
Silence is the patriarch; unrelenting and unyielding.
Pain is the matriarch; erratic and constant
They push and shove, paying no heed
to rational. to thought. to consequence.
paying no heed
to the three fleeting shadows passing cross the door frame
to the three pair of ears pressed to the floor
to the three pair of eyes dried and worn
to the innocent youth with his dimming eyes
to the timid giant with his chained up heart
and never to the eldest, unwise and controlled
planning unrelently, of failures and retreats, of curveballs and detours, of pain and misfortune.
No,
not a heed of thought to three children living in a house, and not a home.
