MR. WATKINS

There lies a house on up the road with cattle gates blocking the entrance, on the other side a raven Guards the opening. An old house it was, with missing shingles and a caving Roof, chips of faded grey still covers the outside revealing vinyl sheets. If you make your way to the backyard you’ll be greeted by a graveyard of ole junk and sheds full of historic belongings, to whom you may ask? Good question wish I knew myself. An empty swimming pool with a molded decaying deck still hold memories of hot summer days. Inter tubes and floaters rest at the bottom of the pool along with rusted nails and syringe caps. Inside the abandoned barn you’ll find a surgical table without a doctor’s presence. Haystacks and piles of beer bottles with broken furniture haunts the Reminisce of the loft. From the inside of the house piles of dusty dishes clutter the sink and long rags cover doorways. Absence of curtains reveal Warped blinds discolored by cigarette smoke of peeping neighbors. Empty boxes of cold medicine cover the floor, some still have a few remaining pills. The bedroom features a pair of dangling shackles and piles of clothing yet to be washed. Tiny bottles can be found in the pockets of button downs. A fireplace with ashes and chimney with thick sut covering the inside walls tells stories of blizzard nights filled with warm cuddling moments. The musk of dirty clothes mixed with shame fills the inside and the sounds of birds nests can be heard from the attic. The heart of the house rest underneath several sheets and a blanket. Nearly a skeleton of who he was, Mr. Watkins lays in bed passed out for hours at a time. He wastes his days enjoying the Euphoric high. The times he’s awake consist of pointless activities such as fidgeting with vials and spoons or roaming the property gripping a mallet in his right hand. It’s seems he’s in search of something besides his peddler...something he lost. Something valuable that’s been gone for awhile and will possibly never be recovered.