My house told me not to speak to you because you are trying to take me away. The walls cried when I ran my hands over its peeling paper covered in royal blue, silver, gold. What was once walls of a palace sat withering where the glue no longer stuck. The pipes groaned when I turned on the faucet, with it filled a bucket of water The floors squeaked in fear as the mop ran over its surface. The curtains blew into my face, wrapping around my body, its flimsy hands grasping at my limbs, holding me in place as I opened the windows. I step away, and they lay limp on each side of the glass frames, feeling abandoned. The windows howl at me, their breaths tickle my skin. The feathery caress reminds me of my childhood, sitting by the window on a breezy day, my face beside the opening. The door does not welcome me as I turned to leave, its rusty knob catches several times squealing as I let go, begging me to remain inside. As I place the key into the lock, the click silenced the walls, the pipes, the floor, the window, door. Stillness follows me as I walk down the pathway towards your car. My house makes its final plea through the flickering lights above the garage doors before leaving us in darkness.
You’ll never look at your automated vacuum the same way again.