Part I: Imagine
Picture a bungalow. A humble house in a modest village. Cracked, uneven sidewalks, running side-by-side with a tawny lawn. Wind holding its breath, anticipating the change of a season. Yellow bricks with deteriorating tuck-pointing. A scuffed and ancient slab, because that’s all the front door can be seen as at this point.
Beyond the threshold lies a hazy darkness, thick with the odor of brews—sour with the scent of neglect. Thick blankets of dust and dirt adorn the drapes, daring the daring to dust and disinfect. Cold light lingers from the boisterous box television, drifting with tiny particles into the cluttered space. The sound of a snore is further polluting the room. Filling the room is a small city of toppled glass bottles and aluminum cans, and not an inch of the floor can be felt when traversed.
The stench thickens in the kitchen, with towers of moldy boxes and dirty plates and flatware. Drain flies aimlessly buzz around, searching for a new source of sustenance, unbothered. A fridge full of empty space hums as it is accompanied by an even emptier feeling on the outside, with one silent figure—small and delicate—sneaking about. Some may think of a house as home, but for little Astrid, it’s quite the contrary.
