My House is Hell

My house. Was hell the right word? I do not think that there is any other way to describe it. My house was a place that I loved and hated at the same time, but if I were able to take my love and hatred and put them both onto a scale, it would definitely be the hatred that would weigh heavier. Who would not hate a house where one has to suffer from the atrocious taste in music of a sister and a mum’s constant rants about your room being a pig’s sty when it is perfectly clean to you? Drive you mad, it would. Sometimes if I stayed in my house for any longer, I think that I could just go berserk from all the commotions around me – maybe I could go more than just bonkers.
I would always use to walk to the back corner of my backyard, or maybe even run-the quicker out of the house the better and the more chances of me keeping my sanity. There was a tree there- the only place where I could have some solitude. I would constantly climb the tree, but now when I think back to it, it was probably an appalling idea-not to mention all the ugly scars everywhere on my legs. Every time I reached the tree, it was like ‘Hallelujah! Peace and quiet for once.’ Was heaven the right word? I do not think that there is any other way to describe how solitude feels.
I could feel the sun directly overhead, filling the space with a haze of buttery sunshine. I would scramble up the branches of the tree and find the pronged section where I could rest my back- just there for my own need. I would always try not to make a commotion when I was climbing the tree- it was my solitude, somewhat my secret hideout and nobody else needs that information taking up their brain space. It was my only place of solitude and I did not need to lose it. If I cannot even find a niche in the most secluded corner of my backyard, what were my chances anywhere else before acting like a mad screwball from all the hullabaloo of my family?
Listen, there they go-oblivious to my existence, as I was oblivious to there’s. I was too busy to worry about anything as I was intensely captured in the world of the 1800’s in Yorkshire while reading Wuthering Heights. I would skim through every page of the book until I found the parts that fulfilled my uncontrollable curiosity. Did somebody die? What was going to happen to Heathcliff and Catherine?
I walk to the back corner of my backyard and see nothing but just an empty plot of land. It was all gone- as if it never existed before… But now, I have another place of solitude – or needed one anyway.