The House Whose Face Fell Off.

This is a piece I wrote in 1996, and have just found again after thinking it was lost. I remember so clearly the images that came to me which called me to pen and paper. 

The House Whose Face Fell Off. 

The house was beautiful - elegant and proud - raising its lovely frontage to the world, promising beauty and grace within, and joy for anyone who came inside. It coloured a warm cream, with great windows allowing great light to enter, strong curtains gracing the edges of the panes, showing opulence and taste. However, the door was always closed, which surprised those looking on; the whole place looked so welcoming, but the door never seemed to open; perhaps people came and went from the back?

One day, with a great noise, part of the frontage fell leaving a great jagged, diagonal wound running from the house’s top right to its bottom left. Behind it was a shocking contrast. The grey, black, dark horror of a war-zone. A war-zone long gone, but which was stirred occasionally by faint bangs and rumbles of a ghost of battle, or remnants of some stubborn soldiers who refused to leave - although the intent of their damage was more than obviously accomplished - as if they so enjoyed it, they couldn’t go. The walls of this house within were blackened by fire and blast, and the windows empty like eyes in great shock. The house seemed to cower in shame and fear at being opened to light again after so long - embarrassed and fearful at being revealed. The rubble and dirt began to clear away - sometimes in great chunks, and sometimes seeming to be only piece by tiny piece of dust particle. At times great progress appeared to be made, but at times it seemed the secret of what had happened, and what it hid, wanted to stay buried forever.

Suddenly, a wall of stone fell away and revealed a small child cowering in the far corner of a blackened room. She had been cowering for who knows how long. It was not just the cowering from suddenly being covered in light, it was the cowering of being afraid and shameful to be seen to exist. Whatever had happened to that child had destroyed her so, so many years ago.Yet despite her terror, her hurt, pain and guilt, which she felt showed so strongly in the battered remains of her facade, she had found the strength to build the beautiful looking frontal to her dwelling place. Such tragic mis-use of strength. She had assumed that people looking at her real, damaged house would have believed it to be her fault, and were embarrassed and angry at her for it looking thus; the area wanted good looking places. She had been too afraid to ask for help to re-build the old - to have the army that attacked her to be removed; somehow she believed herself to have deserved it. For years she had hidden behind the beautiful but empty grandness of the creamy building. She had successfully led the onlookers to believe in her strength and security, but now they understood why the door was always shut.

How long would it take the little girl to gather the courage and trust to come out of her corner? They knew she couldn’t trust them yet; somewhere out here were the original persecutors and she mustn’t put herself in that position again. But the walls were down and the light, the glorious sunlight, and the clean, clean air were with her at last, and she had all the time she needed to grow and stand strong again. To become a genuinely beautiful house with real welcoming windows, and an opening door to let people in, and out.

(20th June 1996)