A small house is set on the horizon.

On the very top of a hill, it is barely visible.

As you get closer, you can’t help but stare and wonder.

There is a stick jutting out from a fence.

A tree jutting out from a path.

And a knob jutting out from a door.

One door. No escape. A rudimentary wooden plank attached to a wall.

The house has four, flat sides that forma square.

A segment of an iron-rod fence casts shadows on the cement wall to the left.

Next to it is a window. Or was.

There was a large, gaping hole where a window should have been.

A blanket of shards lay beneath.

Cubicle, crystalline squares of glass covered the floor.

Old, white paint was flaking off the corner of the pane like snow.

Ribbons of light reflected off of the tiny pieces of glass and reflected onto the murky- colored wall.

The most miniscule holes punctured the wall, from where nails had been.

A wooden table of a deep velvet-wood color was pushed against the door.

There was a puddle of blood beneath the table.

The door was scratched and bruised.

As was the person lying next to it.