“You shouldn’t have been playing in the abandoned house.” That’s what the boy’s parents will probably say to him. It’s what my mom would have said to me, if I had survived. Funny to think that I didn’t. Even funnier to think that I’m still thinking anything after, well, not surviving.

There he is, the boy who found me, hunched by the broken gate. Oh yes, I’d puke if I saw me too, if I had a stomach. I wonder what’s there now. But I can’t look. My eyes, glassy and green are glued to the window, looking down the street, such a pretty street. Such lovely houses in a row, lining a street that leads right to a blight of decay and ruin. How could I not go exploring?

Off he runs, fleeing the sight of me and probably the stench of his own wretch. Why can’t I smell? Then again, it’s probably best that way, since I’m still over there, in the corner. But I can’t look. My eyes stay fixed, marking the progression of the sun by the course of the shadows on the street.

Why did I go in? Why was he here?