My Personal House of Horror would be most likely filled with images of my mother’s disappointed looks and sighs and pantomime re-enactments of every single heartbreak I’ve ever had.
My guide would be my hopeful 6 year old self, who would grow more and more disenchanted as the visit progresses, while I’d look at her powerless and full of dread.
In the darkest and most difficult part of the house to reach, there would be a room filled with sparkling multicoloured hand-blown glass bubbles. Some would be hanging on the wall by the thinnest of threads, others would be amassed in the corners. But most would just be lying on the dilapidated floor covered in dust and cobwebs, their sparkle gone forever.
Full of curiosity I would reach out for the bubbles, only for the delicate glass to instantly dissolve into dust at the touch of my eager hand. I would try again and again, to no avail.
Younger me, by now full of youthful contempt and scorn, would hastily push me out of the room explaining that the bubbles were ideas which, never been acted upon, became too frail to withstand any sort of contact.
Overwhelmed by sorrow and regret, I would make my way down towards the entrance, trying to choke back the big fat tears forming in the corners of my eyes.
At the threshold, my disgruntled tiny self would point to me the way to the gate and out of the House of Misery, before slamming the door on my face.
While walking away, I would suddenly feel something pulling at the hem of my jacket. Tiny me would be standing there staring at me. No more contempt or anger on her face, alas not a smile either.
Without a word she would take my hand and purposefully place a small crumpled piece of paper in it and run back to the house.
On it, scribbled in various fonts and sizes: “Don’t forget me and don’t stop loving me”.