I followed November’s chill; it became the leader in this frigid dance. The sky cried and the wind howled. Thunder cracked like a whip against the stone walls of my castle. The hill that I could once see, was now snugly covered with a blanket of fog. I fumbled with the draw-bridge’s crank, the gears screaming in agony. The door creaked open and came to a halt before my feet.

Fire, in a oval casing resembling a torch, licked the rock walls The chair screamed and ran as I bumped into it, dragging its feet the entire way across the room, scraping up my linoleum flooring. A gray, hollow mold of a man stood in the middle of my living room, posing with flowers. The chair in front of the TV was waving me over, inviting me to sit down.

Drapes hung like vines on the inside of my window, while dark fingers from the trees scratched against the outside of glass, begging for me to come to them. My dishes bathed in the sink.
Upstairs is my sanctuary, my haven - the safest place I could go -the place that I call mine - the room that comforts me: my bedroom. The canopy draped from my ceiling like a spider web. Its black silhouette turned white when I flicked on the light, bathing the room in color. The floor moaned as I strolled across the red carpet that lead the way along the corridor. Mom and Dad stuck in time, frozen behind a sheet of glass, smiled at me. My sister, with my niece on her shoulder, laughed out loud as Victoria made a funny face. They too were frozen in time.

I walked down the hallway, and opened the door to the bathroom. Sailboats moved about like bees buzzing around flowers on the endless ocean of my curtain that covers the bathtub as I opened it. The leaky faucet dripped like tears streaming down a person’s face. The toilet, sweating from the heat, stood firmly against the wall.

Upstairs is the place that is my heaven- it’s my escapism; it’s the place where I lose myself. All the sounds I could think of hearing are muffled; the refrigerator doesn’t hum, the dishes do not clank. I do not get any disruptions. The floor, just like the bark of a tree, is withered with age. An old carpet with a wrinkling face holds many memories of the generations before me.
The couch was always welcome, and helped me relax after a hard day. I sit and write, whether it is a journal entry, a chapter of a story, or line fragments that are later filled into a poem. The rocking chair is as fit as a fiddle, though it had been passed down from members of my family to me.

Just outside the attic, was my garden. It has endless rows of flowers, each blossoming into something beautiful at their own pace. The grass tickled my feet as I walk by. The wind chuckled, the trees on the hill top spreads its arms for a hug, and the sky is no longer upset. The clouds had wiped its tears away.