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PoetryIn-e-Motion

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Poems and short stories ©   by Arno and Anna unless differently stated (Disclaimer).

I was four when we moved to my parents' present house. The house had strange details: someone had engraved his name in the stone stairs at the front door, the wallpaper in my room was poison green, and downstairs in the basement a bright, cold red.

The basement had a brown floor and ceiling, and a real bar disk with chairs and glasses. Perhaps made by the sons of the lady who used to live in there. But the most eye-catching part of the furniture there was a painting on the door leading to the garage. It was a naked lady, the size of the door. She was sitting sideways, looking straight out of the painting, with sheetlike pants. She sat on what I think was a beach, and behind her the sun was setting. Her hair was black, and even if her features were beautiful, there was something cruel about her.

I was very afraid of her. I hated going downstairs alone, and every time I made sure I never turned my back at her. It was as if her eyes followed me everywhere. No matter where in the room I stood, she was always looking at me. On the wall, 90 degrees to the painting, we had a mirror. If I stood in a place where I could not see her on the door, I would surely see her in the mirror.

I also thought there was something evil about the whole basement. I always switched lights on so that I never stood in the dark. When I returned upstairs, I would turn my back to the room at the end of the stairs and run up, before anybody could grab me and pull me back down. Naturally I hated to get things for my mother from the freezer, and I always tried to slip away. Not until the basement was restored and painted white could I consider it a safe place to willingly visit.