Sarcophagus

Another new house went up. Another one of cinder block and brick. That's all the new houses are these days. Getting to be that they look more like office buildings, museums than anything else. Not homes. Certainly not homes.

Take this... house. Nine large rectangular windows face the street. Grey brick, greyer mortar, the thing itself looks like a cinder block.

But inside, through the windows, you see something else. High-backed chairs line a wall of the first floor. Ornate tapestries. A statue of some young cherub or pixie, some pointing nymph. Gold-gilded desks, with matching pedestals, with other matching desks. There is a vase perched on the second floor, covered in purple and green and gold, empty. There is gold on everything, it seems. There is plenty to look at. There is so much on display. The front yard is still nothing but dirt, and the knob-less front door is locked shut with thick wire.

No one's been seen yet. Going in or out. The only sign of life is the glow from the flatscreen TV on the third floor, which can be seen every night. Ask around. No one goes in. No one comes out.

It is a tomb for the living dead. They are rotting as they breath. They must surround themselves with things. They must make it beautiful somehow. They must take it with them. And the kicker, the joke of it is, if a storm were to come tomorrow, the winds and floods, if the hand of God Himself came thundering down, which of the houses do you think would be left standing?

I hope it keeps them safe at night. I hope their stomachs are settled, their minds at peace. I hope they can breathe easy, so, so easy. Wrapped up in bed, counting their Egyptian threads to sleep.