THE HELL IN BRAMBLE

Maybe you’ve inferred this by now, but my friend Shadow and his wife Wanda live in my old house. It was too big for just me, too resonant. There were issues and feelings with the home that I didn’t want to deal with. Regardless of my betrayal, I sold it. I liked my friend Shadow and his wife Wanda as soon as I met them. We were the same age, but I felt so much older, and also, sadder.

When they first invited me to visit, the couple raised architectural issues about the house (the toilet under the staircase), questioned design decisions (all the two-prong electrical outlets). Also, safety concerns. I tried to impart some historical context, and insist on its charm. Nothing supernatural, of course, no previous murders. I did tell them that the house was a sort of Hell for me, a place where I suffer for what I’ve done. They poured us more rioja. I said, I didn’t like what they did with the place, but the changes were a relief to my memories. 

My friend Shadow said he learned in college that Hell was not a real place, but rather just a useful concept to ensure that people behave. His wife Wanda said many beautiful paintings have been created by artists depicting Hell, not to mention poems and songs and films. I went to college too. I understood that they were trying to change the configuration of my grief. But my shortness of breath when they showed me the redesigned bedroom could not be intellectualized away.     

The feelings passed. Their dog, Apple, clearly enjoyed all the space that the new house provided, the half-acre yard, and lost five pounds. She treated me like a peer or younger sibling, and I liked the lack of responsibility. My friend Shadow and his wife Wanda seemed surprised Apple tolerated me at all. One way a dog communicates, they said, is by biting.