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The Attic

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Day: One
Date: February 28, 2012
Time: Around one o’clock in the afternoon

                I thought I saw a bunny dodge just before I almost ran it over as I drove towards my new residence.

                My windows were raised halfway which was why I could hear the sound of my newly replaced rims grinding the mixed gravel and soil, the road not being layered with asphalt. The trees on either side of the narrow dirt path seemed older than me, for the brown shade of their barks were as dark as that of dark chocolate, the bitter ones, which were one of my friend’s favorites, if I recalled it right.

                Glancing at the rearview mirror, I saw the way behind me stretch into what I imagined to be yards forest path, surrounded by trees; their thick clumps of leaves screened most of the light emitted by the afternoon sun that reflected upon my windshield whenever I ran out of shade, obscuring my sight of the road. After half an hour of driving, I finally got to hit the brakes for good as I pulled over in front of the house I just bought. There was this auction that I chose to participate in a couple of months ago. Among the items contested was a seemingly decent house within the range of my budget, an amount I was able to amass as an architect for almost six years now.

                My name’s Frank, by the way, short for Francis. I’m used to being called Frank, though my guess was that people spelled my nickname in their minds as Frank; something which I’m opposed to, because I firmly believed that it should be Franc. There’s nothing I could really do about it except bear it, for I could hypothetically say that the one with a ‘k’ was more commonly used.

                As I got out of the car, I couldn’t help but admire the structure in front of me, happily telling myself that at last I am in possession of something I could proudly claim as mine - my very own house, my property, which I purchased through endless sleepless nights of tracing drafts and a mountain of crumpled plates I drew on. I was a perfectionist, believing that there could be no room for mistakes when drawing a building plan, which resulted to any plates with even just the slightest of error being tossed into the trash bin immediately. No exceptions.

                My only disappointment was that, being an architect, I didn’t design my own house. It was a lifetime dream of mine to be the one to decide for the measures and dimensions of my walls, but apparently it was a dream fixed as it was, never to be fulfilled in reality, seeing that I got impatient and just decided that an auctioned house would suffice, rather than running my mechanical pencil until I got myself a house plan to rise on a perfect spot.

                It was a two story house – three bedrooms, one of which I converted into an office, each with a bathroom of its own, except the master’s bedroom (The master’s bedroom was actually more of a billiard room. I converted it into my room because it’s the biggest of all). A kitchen which I figured I’d hardly use because I’m not the type of guy who had the luxury of time to cook because I’m busy sleeping whenever not working and working when I’m not sleeping. A living room that I decorated, or should I say, had hired an interior designer to decorate it together with technically every room in the house.

                I didn’t want to scrutinize all those home magazines and experiment.

                I wanted perfection, and I thought better of it to leave the job to a home stylist whose field of expertise ranged from finding the correct living room set to match the wall paint to advising the appropriate chandeliers

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