The Musso Mansion's living room was once a beautiful place of joy and memory. I would know, I've been here on many good occasions. It was where Mitchel Musso hung out with his friends. The wallpaper was then intact, it was a nice navy blue, good and pure, it covered the walls well. Now, it was chipped in places, there was even a hole just behind the television. The television was big and settled atop a cabinet that held Musso's family pictures. Once they littered the house, but now, they are hidden in the drawers. The fuzzy light blue rug in the middle of the living room was always stain-free, but now it's tainted purple. A wooden chair toppled over on it.
The couches are welcoming. Two couches sat on the carpet across from each other, black and leather. The pillows were perfect, and even seemed brand new. Neither couch faced the television, however, almost as if they were strategically placed for conversation only, the television being of only nominal importance. It wasn't even plugged in.
On the far corner stood a rather comical statue. It was a detailed marble recreation of Mitchel Musso, mic in hand just under his opened mouth, seemingly, and joyously, singing. Somebody had placed a chef's hat over top his head while a pink tutu adorned his waist. At least that's how his friends would describe it, laughing every time they'd see the silly statue. It was something simple, but fun.
The mirror beside the statue told a different story. It was smashed and cracked. A single sentence in red crudely written on it. "Nobody Cares about YOU!" the red words read. It was disgusting. One can easily tell from a single glance that it was not written by Mitchel Musso himself. The vandalized mirror seemed to show that fun hangouts weren't always fun around the Musso Mansion.
On the ceiling directly above the carpet hung a chandelier, half of it broken off. The end that was broken had a rope attached to it and laid on the fallen chair. The whole area was red. A dark red, which is what had probably turned the blue carpet purple in the first place. In fact, it was the same red stuff that wrote the crude message on the mirror. The same red all over my hands.
There, flat on the chair, the other end of the chandelier's rope tied around his neck, lied a corpse. The corpse of the owner of the mansion, Mitchel Musso himself. The scene would appear a suicide had it not been for the crudely written message.
"Nobody Cares about YOU!"
To reiterate, it wasn't Mitchel's handwriting.
It was mine.