The house was amazing, one of those which you see and immediately know they have a spot in your heart. There was a shadow over it, and the garden was abandoned just like the one in The Secret Garden. A tree was growing in the middle of the staircase, the branches got in the way of the eyes just like when I have a smudge on my glasses. I can’t help but think that if we had stepped on the grass, the branches would have moved and lashed us back just like in Sleeping Beauty the branches didn’t let the prince get near the castle with the princess.
The color of the house was peeling off elegantly, it’s that disgusting orange-pink, but when it’s in the shadow, you don’t notice it. The windows looked like they would calmly open and close in unison with the wind. The central gate opened slowly, attentively completing a duty, but unable to stop those foreign hands: numerous Nestea bottles and bleached cigarette packs marked the time of this mini-jungle, fifty years ago a luxurious residence house, in central Sofia. There are some weird scars, for example security stickers, oddly out of place but deemed necessary. The whole thing is an anachronism that burns across your eyes. No one is surprised when others also come to a halt next to the fence with a lack of comprehension.
I want to go there at night. There’s a gate that lets cars in or, with a bit of imagination, carriages. It opens readily and even stays ajar to see who might dare come in. Who knows what’s inside—junkies, prostitutes, vagrants, mafia, concentration camp, demons? I feel Ryuk is watching over this disintegrating splendor because every experiment with humans he’s designed has been beautiful. Again he’s showing off a wide smile with pointed teeth and he’s chomping on an apple. See ya, man.
Ryuk:
