This house is boiling
The pot on the stove boiled insistently, yet no one paid attention. The melting walls of the Morgan’s house were transfixing. “Can someone get that?” her father remarks, loudly but awkwardly, as if the world was a train that had run off its tracks and it was his responsibility to lift it back on. Ada didn’t know what he was talking about because she didn’t hear the sound of the kettle anymore. Was she supposed to get the house? It was undergoing a surely dangerous transmutation. What was happening to the house was hard to put into words: there was no fire. But from the roof large white tears of wall wept down it, as if it were a large, unshapely candle. Ada gets up and turns off the stove. “What kind of tea do you want?” she asks her parents. “I have to get to bed early tonight,” her mother says. Should I call someone? Ada wonders: the fire department, the police force, the newspaper, a doctor? There are kids in there, inside that melting house and I’ve been staring at it but they’re not coming out. Automatically she gets ready for bed, brushes her teeth, combs her hair, puts on her pyjamas. But she finds that it hurts to lay in bed. The sound of the kettle buzzes in her mind. Something is happening but everything is silent, still and black. Closing her eyes hurts. Without sound, she places her feet on the wood floor. She walks down the stairs but her legs are tense and she has to tell them twice what to do. Out the kitchen window the Morgan’s home is gone. In it’s place a large white puddle glimmers in the moonlight, as if it’s winking at her. She sees the family standing together in disbelief. Ada opens her front door and steps out of her house.