I've lived in the city for 20 years. Over that period, I've lived with eight different families. I loved the first seven that moved in with me. They would take care of me by talking peacefully in my presence, cleaning up my room, calling doctors when I got sick or when my legs or arms were hurt or broken. I loved my third family's daughter. She would draw with me, and I would in return protect her at night in her room. Her parents also loved me and would burn candles for my delight. I miss that lovely, scented smell. But eventually, they had to leave me because they couldn't stay around anymore. I did not understand why and attempted to stop them several times by pleading, begging, and even knocking down their boxes.
But it didn't stop them, even though they told me they didn't want to go. I watched their car leave, heartbroken and angry. This happened with every single family that moved in with me. They would stay for a year or two, but none would stay permanently. A sense of resentment began to build slowly as the families left. I would attempt to make each one stay, but my efforts would always be in vain. It's been two years now since the last family was here, and I live alone now. It's been lonely here with little to no company of people visiting me. The ones that do visit have gray suits who periodically decide if a new family will come to stay with me. That has been going on for two years, but there is still no family. But lately, those people haven't been coming around. But despite the loneliness, I'm glad that there isn't anyone here, because of the last family. Initially, I got excited when I heard that they decided to stay permanently.
At first, they were like the last seven families. They had a daughter, but there was also a dog. The daughter was too old to play with me but would sit in her bedroom. The mother and father at first took care of me with doctors and such when I got sick or when my arms or legs would get hurt. Two years into living with them, things started to change. It began with the family's dog. It started scratching me up daily. But they did not get me help and let it sit. They waited two weeks until finally getting me help. This was the first sign that I missed. I just got so excited about having a long term family staying with me that it blinded my judgment. I should've noticed when the mother and father started yelling at each other and the daughter crying in her room at night. I did my best to protect her at night, but slowly over time, it got more difficult. It began to affect my soul after some time. The words I heard every day and night became like a flask of poison.
Then, the physical abuse began to happen not once a month, but daily. The dog scratched me more often. No matter how many times I protested to the family about it, they either didn't care or didn't hear me. This continued for months on end. The emotional and physical abuse got worse and worse, with the daughter beginning to abuse me too. She would yell obscenities at me, saying she was letting out her anger and frustration at her parents arguing so much. But then it turned into screams of how she wished she never knew me or moved in with me. It was heart wrenching. I knew I couldn't take this much longer, so I decided to take things into my own hands.
When the mother and father were yelling at each other, I yelled back at them. This scared them, as I'd never yelled at them before. Every time they would yell, I would continue to yell back. It seemed to work when there was no more yelling and screaming. Rather it was frightened silence and tiptoeing. For the physical abuse, if they scratched me, I would hit them back. The dog learned quickly and ceased to continue. However, the father didn't learn so fast. One night, he hit me in the arm and broke it. I already had other broken limbs that took months for someone to come help heal them. But this time was different. The father broke all the bones in my arm.
I heard the mother run in and start screaming at him to stop hurting me, and that it wasn't going to help fix their marriage problems. Well, that was the end of that conversation. The father proceeded to hit the mother on the head, knocking her out. After the nature of what he'd just done hit him, the father tried to run away. But I decided not to let him and with my functioning left fingers, blocked him from going anywhere. He hit me even harder, but of course, it was impossible. Then the daughter ran over to where we were and pleaded with me to let her see what was happening. So I did. She took one look at her mother and immediately called the police.
The father attempted to stop her, but when I yelled at him, he stopped. Fifteen minutes later, the father was arrested. The mother, daughter, and dog left me after that. They didn't even take their things away. Not that they needed to, anyway. They won't be back anytime soon. Now let me ask you a question. What am I? Have you guessed yet? Well, if you haven't, I'm a house. I was built 20 years ago, and now the city is thinking of tearing me down. What a tragic story that would be, especially since my last family marked me forever as a "haunted house." I guess I am, but I would rather be abandoned and boarded up than torn down because if some curious explorers came around, I would...quite enjoy scaring them.