The House of Hope is the second installation of 'The Train of Life', describing a woman who has given up on life, but is urged to explore the deepest and darkest parts of her in order to find a way to heal.
"You can be your own lover or your own ene...
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My tears had come to a stop, and all that was left was an anger that was paired with nostalgia. I stood in silence, the bubbling feeling of rage growing in me, so I began to scream. I desperately wanted to be back in the past, my knees feeling weak at what I had just experienced when I heard a voice. It was a woman, and I could not see her. But I could feel her.
She drawled, sounding so bored, like she didn't want to be there. "I am here to take you to the next part of the exhibition."
With a snap of her fingers, a single lightbulb illuminated the center of the room, reminiscent of my childhood bedroom. Sunlight poured in from the right, casting its glow upon a white-framed mirror propped against the door. The green rug beneath my feet had been a gift on my tenth birthday. Nostalgia washed over me as I gazed upon the hazel-nut-colored walls and then noticed her presence.
Dark red lips, a straight face as she peered at me through her thick-rimmed glasses. She wore a mini skirt, a white dress shirt, and stiletto heels. I sputtered, trying to ask the right question, but the only thing I could think of was: who are you?
"Hatred. Grief. Pain. Betrayal." The edge of her lips raised into a smirk. "You choose, sweetheart. I am what you are feeling."
She sighed, raising a clipboard before clicking her tongue. "I know our angel counterparts like playing games on that train of theirs, but we demons like to cut the chase, y'know?"
"Demons?" I asked, not understanding what was going on.
"Did Courage not give you a rundown when he brought you here?" she asked, lifting up an eyebrow. "Poor thing. Well, not my problem."
"This is fucking stupid," I ended up saying, deciding this was a fever dream. It was happening in my head. I wanted to die so much; I ended up hallucinating. "Get me out of here."
The woman stared at me, running her tongue over her lips. "I can't."
"Like damn, you can't!" I snapped, my voice ringing out, threatening to throw a—
"Tantrum?" she asked, her voice degrading. "Sweetie, please do. About time, don't you think? For you to scream, and yell, and tell the world how hard it has been for you? To blame everyone for the negativity that it has brought to you."
Stop. I lifted my hands, pressing them to my ears.
"You humans love blaming everything except yourself," she hissed, and I doubled over, landing on my knees. "People do not like being told that they are responsible for their own happiness. What makes you think that the world is against you? The world doesn't care about you."
She emphasized the last part, straining each word, and I could almost feel it enter my brain.
"The world doesn't care about you until you care about yourself. Your reality is a mirror of what you are inside. You reflect your very own paradigm." She was closer now, and I closed my eyes tightly, trying to block the sound out, but it was in my head. "Get up."
