The Lonely Shed

TW: suicidal ideation

When I was younger, we had an old rusty shed. When we moved into the house it was already there, we never bothered to take it down. It just sat there, in the backyard, quiet, alone but acknowledged. The backyard was extensive but somehow we always ended up near the shed. The shed was dark and there was never a use for it. A few times we had tired to spruce it up, but it was like the shed didn’t want our comfort. Even the grass had retreated further away. All it had was dirt and rocks, small painful rocks. Things would fall out break and the shed would stay as it is. Once we had tried to paint it but after a week the paint began to chip and the rusted. Tin seeped through once more. The shed had one window. It was dirty, green and looked to be indestructible, at least that’s what we thought. 

On September the 24th we had family over for the whole day. As we played soccer in the backyard we heard a noise. I had come from the shed. The shed which had stayed quiet and distant all these years had finally spoken and we were all terrified. It had broken it’s silence. When we looked through the window something launched at us and we all fell back, aghast. As we stood behind father, carrying a stick prepared for battle, we heard scurrying. The door opened and out flew a raccoon, jumping out of it’s path we observed from a distance. It scurried away into one of the bushes and was never seen again. 3 weeks later, we were playing with the ball. It flew right past my hand. Before I had time to realise what was going on, the ball was plummeting towards the window. 

There was glass everywhere. The glass glinted in the sun, so beautiful, so raw. We got the window replaced but three weeks later it happened again. The ball flew right past, into the window. This time it didn’t just shatter, it smashed. The pieces lined the outside of the shed, so peaceful, so tempting. We never got the window replaced. The shed liked it that way, it didn’t bother us anymore. It was it’s old rusty self again, at peace at last. 

Am I like that shed? Am I like that window? I sit on the bathroom floor, it’s cold, welcoming. The shed didn’t want help, I don’t want help. I don’t need their help. The window was broken but it was okay being broken. It was fixed, it was helped. But it still wanted to be broken. I could reach out for help. I don’t have to be broken, but I feel as tho I owe it to myself. I want to be broken, but why? I could ask to be fixed, why don’t I. The glass near the shed was never cleaned, it still looks so tempting. I could just take one shard. One. Small. Shard. Just one. Every time I walk by they stare at me, calling me name. But the butterfly on my hand wills me not to. After all I don’t want to hurt my butterfly. 

I get off the floor and make my way down stairs. The house is cold, quiet. Just like the shed. The cold breeze brushes against my skin as I open the door. Winter is coming, creeping up ever so slightly. I hug myself to preserve warmth. Shorts and a t-shirt don’t cut it. I make my way towards the shed, small rocks digging into my bare feet. I stop in front of a small glint in the dirt. Glass, I take a step closer. A sharp pain courses through me. I look down at my foot, a shard of glass. Leaning on the shed I pull it out and the cut bleeds more. it trickles down my heal, the pain doesn’t stop. Now looking at the pieces of the broken window lying on the ground, I stop, I see my reflection. Am I like that window? Broken is what I am. Pieces surround me waiting to be fixed. 

Mum always wanted to make something out of the shed. “Come on guys, it can be a summer project to keep you busy”, she would encourage. We would try to convince her  how there was no point and anyways it would all break off in the end. Summer of 09 mum had enough of the rusty old shed sitting in out backyard. “Family meeting”, she announced from downstairs. We slowly made out way down stairs, one of the earliest starts we’d had all holiday. She sat us down, “you either fix that shed, or I will personally take a hammer and knock it down”. We didn’t want to let it go since it had been there for so long but we knew nothing would come out of it. Yet that summer we got to work. Over the course of six weeks we were able to completely change the shed. It went from unloved and rusting, to purple and welcoming. We made it our own hang out space and it lasted. For a while.

Until it rained. It was the last week of holidays and all week it had been raining. The rain didn’t stop and neither did the sadness of the shed. The rain began to make the paint chip and the holes in the roof made water leak inside. After the rain we checked on the shed and it was absolutely destroyed. The paint had washed off and all that was left was small purple streaks throughout it. The inside was even worse. All they water that had accumulated over the week had seeped into the furniture causing it to rot. We cleared everything out and never touched the shed again. 

The glass stares at me. Haunts me, calls me. I kneel and pick up a piece. Small but big enough. I make my way back upstairs into the bathroom. I sit back on the floor and stare at the glass. I don’t know how much time has passed. The glass looks so pretty it glimmers in the light. I hold it against my wrist, the cold of the night has stayed on the glass. It makes me shiver. 

Am I like that window? Do I want to be fixed?