Sometimes we are too busy living our lives and comparing ourselves to the “Jones”, to even see what is really occurring right in front of us. We tell ourselves that this couldn’t happen here, that this neighborhood is filled with “proper” people. We look at the news and read heart wrenching stories of abuse, molestation; and say how that could never happen in our homes and in our streets. But do we ever take a moment to really look at our streets and within our homes. Every home holds some form of secrets within its walls. We look at the outside, at the masked faces but we never really look within. Today I will take you within.
Disclaimer: This is not an actual community, at least I hope it isn’t. It is a collection of homes, situations and experiences that have occurred.
The immaculate blue house was one of the trophies of my neighborhood. The rainbow of colors that danced against my neighbors windows, never cease to amaze me. Every week without fail the lady of the house would scrub and wash the windows and walls, replacing the previous curtains with a vibrant new hue, drawing any wandering eye. Her designs were known and appreciated by everyone as they flew out of all of the windows. I sometimes wish that the curtains and their magical colors was the only thing I saw when I looked at her windows. For behind them hid the sullen face of a little boy and the bruised shadow of his mother. You see my neighbor as polished as she appeared to the neighbors never knew what mood her husband would return in. One moment the shadow by the window revealed a loving jovial man. Yet on many star filled nights, the curtains shaded the truth within the home and the monster he held within. As her masked face frequently crumbled under the storm of his kick and fist, as he would beat her more into submission. Her little son would stay shivering locked in his room, praying that it would not be his turn. Paralyzed by fear, unable to protect his mother, he would quietly cry himself to sleep most nights as the night air would sneak through the window panes trying its best to offer him a lullaby,
The yellow house, though it could not boast of the highest value or of the prettiest landscaping, it was however the one that held the worst secrets. Its walls seeped with stolen innocence, or silent threats and muffled voices. Though from the outside, they appeared to be a well-polished family, just short of the picket fence and dog. Her decorative smiles masked years of secrets and pain. You see the sacrificial lamb of the family was never allowed to expose the truth, as her indoctrinated loyalty to her family and fear of banishment was enough to muffle her tears. Tears that she kept behind her angelic yet rebellious smile as she went to church each Sunday and prayed to a quiet savior. One she quietly wondered, if he was even there. For how could a savior not see her tears, or hear her screams, or was he like the neighbors around her too blind to see, and too selfish to care?