They say this place is home, a haven for the aged. But to me, it’s a prison painted in bright colours, where every day is monotonous, and every meal is a bland reminder of a time long gone. They plucked me from my garden, my sanctuary, where time was marked by seasons, not by pills and appointments. Here, the walls whisper pity in the silence, and faces blur into a sea of forgotten stories.
I never thought I’d end my days in a place like this, a repository for the once-loved. They visit, yes, but their eyes betray the truth—they wish to be anywhere but here. They no longer see the man I was but instead, the burden I’ve become.
Yet, there’s an oddity in my tale, a peculiar twist. At night, when the world sleeps and this place holds its breath, the walls… they speak. Not in the pitiful whispers of the day, but in clear, vibrant tones of life and memories. They recount tales not of my life but of others long forgotten, tales that no living soul could remember.
At first, I thought it madness, a trick of an old mind. But then, the truths they spoke, the secrets of the past they revealed, were too precise, too real to be the fancy of a senile mind.
What sorcery this is, I cannot say. But, I’m convinced, these walls hold souls within them, and at night, I listen to the voices of the past, sharing in their laughter, their sorrow, their lives. In my isolation, I’ve found a bizarre companionship. It’s as if this place, this care home I so despise, is alive with the echoes of those who came before me.
And so, I wait for the night, for the moment when I’m no longer alone. But I cannot shake the chilling thought—what happens when my voice joins theirs? Will a new occupant of this room, years from now, hear my tales, my regrets, whispered in the dark? It’s an eerie comfort, and perhaps, in this unexpected twist, I’ve found my place within these walls.
Only Murders In My Mind 