My Dream Home

I have a plan. I’m going to build a house. A home. I will hold the key. I will have control.

I’ll have a nice front door that we’ll put a wreath on every Christmas to remind people and ourselves that we’re jolly. Maybe I’ll even have one of those electric doorbells with a camera. Then I’ll know if anyone else, including you, is trying to get in.

I’ll be in the kitchen cooking dinner and you’ll show up at the door and buzz and I’ll prepare to put the pasta sauce on a simmer so that I can walk to the front door without having the ever-burdensome worry of having something boil over or burn into flames whilst I’m not looking and unaware. Yes, that will be my biggest worry when I’m in this house.

I’ll casually ask who it is, and you’ll say it’s you and I’ll look worried because you were not part of my future plan. I did not consider that you would be here. I thought you’d be dead by now.

I’ll have a nice hallway, of course. Just like the one I run down now, only with higher ceilings and more room to breathe. I haven’t decided if it will have family pictures along it or not – I won’t want to rub my family’s happiness in our guest's faces – it could seem a little gauche.

I won’t have stairs – too many risks. I don’t have to explain it to you. Or do I? Is your brain so damaged from falling down them all the time that you can’t remember you fell down them? Well, not necessarily fell – I’m just sticking with the story you told the police.

The police won’t ever come to this house. I’ll probably forget what they even look like. I’ll forget the clomp clomp clomp of their fists on the un-wreathed door. I’ll forget how it felt for my heart to jump up and lodge itself in my throat. I’ll forget the subsequent clomp… clomp… clomp… of his enraged fist-pounding your belly as your intestines wince – police make him angrier than ever. I think it’s because he’s scared of losing us?

The only reason the police might tap tap tap at my big, wreathed door that I could possibly think of would be for a minor noise complaint by a grumpy old neighbour. The noise complaint wouldn’t be the same as the ones we receive now – no, if I ever got a noise complaint in this house it would be because I was throwing a little soirée in the garden, not throwing my wife against a wall.

Oh god! I haven’t told you about the garden yet. It’ll have enough room for outdoor seating due to the simple fact that I’ll always be having guests over because I have nothing to hide. There’ll be white roses in the back of the garden of course, growing through the mud until the mud just disappears altogether. At the front of the garden, near the chairs and table, we’ll have daffodils. Those two flowers complement each other in a beautifully non-aggressive manner.

Moreover, the soirée and the noise complaint from the grumpy neighbour will be the most ‘terrible thing’ I talk about for weeks, until I go to the bakery and my favourite sourdough is sold out, or one of the kids spills a snack in the car. Oh, what a chaotically blessed life I’ll have – I’ll talk about this supposed chaos at the P&C meeting the following week and receive validating empathetic nods and chuckles. It’ll feel so good to have my experience validated, so I’ll be able to project a warm smile, ignoring the cold iron rod that’s been lodged in my soul since birth.

I’ll have a white kitchen with an island. Are you jealous I’m choosing white without hesitation? I’ll have a cleaning supplies closet off of the kitchen. I’ll keep bleach in there, but mine won’t be for cleaning my own blood that inconveniently spurted out of my mouth after my husband sadly smashed my face into the sink. Mine will be to clean silly little messes that my kids make. I won’t get angry when they make messes either, just bewildered. I’ll say “Oh no! Not pasta bolognese sauce on the white rug!” and then I’ll rush to the closet and get my supplies. Instead of crying as I wipe, I’ll laugh at how ridiculous I’m being – pasta sauce on the white rug is really no big deal!

By the end of the night, we’ll be sitting in the living room that I’ve designed with a fireplace, all warm and cosy watching a movie on the TV that I’ve designed to have mounted to the wall. It’s not that I need it mounted on the wall – it will be mounted due to stylistic preferences, not because I’m afraid someone’s going to pick it up and throw it at me. And the fireplace will be turned on whenever it is cold. It will be a comfort, not a weapon.

I think I’ll have a husband in the house too… maybe… we’ll see. If I do, I’ll sit next to him on the yellow and blue checked sofa and tell him what an ordeal the pasta sauce was - having to find the perfect pork and veal mince ratio, buying the organic tomatoes from the farmers market, only to have it spill on the white rug! He’ll listen and he’ll laugh and he won’t get angry. He’ll go in for a kiss and I’ll purse my lips and wince quietly even though I know he won’t hurt me.

We’ll have a study off of the hallway too – a lot of successful families have those. But this one won’t have a lock like ours does. I did think about making it soundproof – it is quite a tiresome task to get my brain to focus on my homework when your howls and bellows permeate so pointedly through those thin walls. But then I remember that I’ll probably never need the soundproofing due to something like that again – oh gosh I’m a ditz sometimes! I’ll use the money I’ve saved on soundproofing to buy a big dining table that the kids can do homework on. I’ll always know what time they’ll be home, because they’ll always want to come home – to this home specifically, specially curated for them.

I wonder why you haven’t designed a house for me like this yet. Why don’t you take me away? I’ll help you build it. You love this old house we live in too much, don’t you? It’s too familiar to you now. Do you even realise it’s haunted? Do you? Do you realise? Do you care? Do you care? Can you hear me?

….You must be upstairs. I’m sure you’ll pummel down soon.

I guess I’ll have a spare room in the new house though. It will sit empty for a while, waiting for you to change your mind. You’ll call one day after I’ve put the kids to bed and I’ll answer and I’ll ask who it is and you’ll say it’s you and you’ll admit you’re in trouble and I’ll open my double garage and pull my car out to come and get you, and then we’ll pull back into the garage and close the door, and then we’ll be safe because we can watch the outside world through the electric doorbell with the camera. We will be safe in my dream home because I will hold the key. Not you, me.

But for now, I’ll lock my door with an old broom that dad broke in half. I’ll lodge it under the handle and I’ll go to sleep with a pillow over my head so I can’t hear your curdling screams bubble over.

I used to not lock the door in case you came to get me from my room in the middle of the night and take us away to someplace safe. But you will not get me out. I will get myself out and build us a new life. Don’t worry, I have a plan.