“Tell me a story, a fascinating one. Then, I might consider selling you this house.”
“Why do you think there is a story?”
“A white collar drops a contract at my fiancé’s firm and offers to make me rich. An offer double the worth of this wrecked house and you’re telling me there’s no story? If there isn’t, cook one for me.”
Tell me a story she said. Sell me your conscious, she never said.
“What if you don’t want to sell me the house after I fascinate you?”
“A risk worth this beautiful wreck, I guess. Shall we start?”
Fascinate me, stir my soul, make me a drink and we shall celebrate midst the fantasy.
“I lived in this house with my beautiful mother and my jerk, cheating father till I was six.”
“You’re telling me that you’re ready to pay double for a wreck where you lived for just six years; agonizing six years, I am guessing. Tell me, is it the memories?”
“Ah, The sweet sisters. Where’s the story, my friend?”
“My mother once walked in on my father cheating with a lady from the post office department. I had known my mother to be a calm, sensible woman, until then. Things got bad after the lady left. My father started hitting my mother and she brought in the kitchen knife to save whatever was left. I was scared, really scared.”
“She didn’t want to but she had no choice. When it all ended, I saw the woman who bore me crying helplessly soaked in the blood of a man she once loved.”
“Your mother killed your father?”
Bless the soulless, for a new dawn is upon us where justice shall find a new light.
“The way I see it, my mother killed a man who killed her soul. It was payback, rightful justice. I stood there terrified with my feet soaked in the shame of his sins. My mother held me close to her, for I was all she was left with. There was no way the world would’ve forgiven her. You know the country, you know the people. We get away with sins; we’re cursed for emasculating them.”
Ask me my story, ask me about the dark corners and you shall be scared, yet fascinated.
“You want some coffee, a moment perhaps?”
“You need a moment. I’ve had my fair share. It doesn’t fascinate you, it scares you.”
“It moves me. So, did the police find out?”
“We didn’t let them. We spent the whole cursed, rain-soaked night digging up the lawn and buried his body. I don’t remember shedding a single tear that night. After we buried his body, I cleaned up the blood while my mother sat next to his grave, trembling. She could take abuses, physical pain but not betrayal. Next morning, we made a story about how my father ran away with somebody else and moved to another part of the world.”
“And they believed it?”
“They had to. When a six-year-old testifies to his father’s sins, people believe.”
Innocent inside, ageless the monster that lurks within.
“And your mother took you away from this house. This house has bad memories and still you want it back. Why?”
“My mother never wanted us to move. They made us and she has been dying to come back ever since.”
“Let me guess. Nostalgia?”
Ah, the sweet sisters.
“Why today? What was so important that it couldn’t wait another day?”
“It’s her seventy-fifth birthday.”
“And what makes you think that I’d sell this house to the murderers and not go to the police?”
“Because you believe in my story. You believe that what my mother did was just. You believe in the truth veiled by a lie.”
“In that case, we should go.”
“I want to wish your mother a happy birthday and give her a present.”
“Because you believed in the story?”
“No. Because it fascinated me.”
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