Back to the Place That Built Me
"You had me at 'ding-dong'."
Sipping my coffee, I stare at the deteriorating wall of my house, with its boards exposed and black mold edging its way up the part that wasn't exposed at all.
Black mold. That was what the contractor told me. He said it was deadly, that it could cause all sorts of health problems. That I had to move out before it spread even further, otherwise I was as good as dead. I took his words at face value, because I trusted him enough to know what he was doing.
Most of the houses around here are made out of brick and mortar. Mine has been called the ugliest one in town, just for how it was made out of wood on both the inside and the outside. One stallion told me it looked like somepony took a cabin from the woods and planted it in town, and once I thought about it for a little bit, I realized that he was right. Houses like mine belong in the woods, not in the middle of a city full of hustle and bustle.
Still, when you're trying to escape from the stresses of family life, you jump at the first house that looks good and is within your price range. This "cabin in the city" was a desperate buy, one that I spent my hard-earned bits on despite both the seller and the lender telling me exactly what I was getting into.
As I take another sip, I cough. I can't tell if it's from coffee going into my lungs instead of my stomach, or the black mold getting to me. Thinking about the latter makes thirst go away in an instant, and I end up pouring the coffee down the sink.
Quickly, I dash outside for some fresh air, regretting having not put on my mask when inside, as the contractor told me to do. I cough again and again, and after the fifth cough I decide to use an old-time trick taught to me by my sister, moving into a sitting position and raising my forelegs into the sky. The coughing manages to subside within a few minutes. With a sigh, I trot down the stairs and head into town. A walk wouldn't hurt, especially if it got me away from that wretched house.
My eyes can't stop moving towards all the signs that advertise houses for sale. Ironhaven Real Estate is the best, and only, company in the business, but something is driving everypony out of town and I don't know what. Talks of gentrification linger in the air here and there, but we don't have that many rich residents. Do the ponies who use the word even know what it means? Because I'm not sure they do. And if they do, they've probably never stepped hoof outside of their homes more than once a month.
Eventually, I turn onto Clover Street, where two parallel rows of houses lay. Each one of them looks similar in design, boasting two apartments with shingled roofs and large backyards. I recognize the area, of course -- I grew up here. Many a day was spent traveling towards the small crab apple tree on the top of the hill with my friends, hiding in the underbrush and sharing a couple of apples and some gossip until the sun began to come down and we had to go home for dinner. Strolling down the sidewalk, I point out a tree that Tropical Breeze and I would climb, with her trying to use her magic to levitate herself to no avail because her magic was too weak.
My face collides with something metal and floppy. I give an "oof" sound and stumble backwards, shaking my head and looking at what was blocking my path.
FOR RENT BEGINNING 05/18
Lovely apartment #1, 2bed 1BR
1200 bits per month
To inquire about amenities, contact Value & Price at Ironhaven Real Estate today!
Today is the tenth of May. That means whoever lives here only has eight days to move out. And "here" is...
My breath gets caught in my throat as I turn to look at what was being put on the market.
It's my fillyhood home.
The exterior hasn't changed. The color of the paneling is still the same soft blue color it was before. The jambs are still as black as night. About the only addition there is involves a small white metal shed, sitting on the grass next to the house. Looking at the rest of the street shows that other houses have the same shed in the same place, and I wrinkle my snout in disgust, wondering what kind of weird trend floated through here that everypony decided to put up these sheds...or had to put up these sheds.
Not wanting to look creepy, I begin trotting away, moving past the sign while glancing at the front door.
Rent it.
What?
Rent the apartment. It's yours.
...No. Fillyhood homes don't belong to any one pony. There are many homes that children grew up in only for them to be put on the market and bought by other ponies years after they move out.
You will die if you stay in that thing you call a house. Fillyhood home or not, you need to get out. Now.
I hate my conscience sometimes. But I can't deny that it's right this time.
Making a U-shaped turn, I go back the way I came, back towards town and back towards the two ponies who would hopefully be my saviors.
New developers. Developers not from this town. Developers looking for some hopeless sap to hoof them bits like they just struck a goldmine in their backyard.
Okay, that last part might be unjustified. They don't seem like the greedy type, but I couldn't tell from just one interaction. All that really matters to me in the moment, anyway, is that I got my fillyhood apartment back.
I push my way into the house with the last box on my back, then drop it and look around. The apartment isn't completely furnished; I still have to go hunting tomorrow. But on the day I was set to leave, I took the opportunity to draw a mental image of where I want things to go in the living room.
A couch on the right side, against the wall of the stairs. A desk in the left corner. A small cabinet just before the kitchen doorway, where I can store a glass antique collection I plan to start. It isn't much, and I can't replicate the apartment exactly like when I was a filly, but that won't stop me from trying.
With the sun setting, I move to the couch and flop on it, staring at the gray painted wall, whole and mold-free. A sigh, tired but delighted, comes forth, and for a moment I contemplate catching a few Z's before dinner. My mind wanders to the stuff I had to say goodbye to, because there was no way I was going to take my chances with black mold. At the very least, I have enough to buy new furniture -- the problem is hunting for furniture from fillyhood, which is hard to do.
The more I think about it, the more tired I feel. Maybe a nap isn't a bad idea. After all, I have work tomorrow. Just like when I was a filly, this house isn't going to pay for itself. Two jobs can really tire a mare out.
My dreams are filled with first-pony views of dashing around the neighborhood, going over to friends' houses and attending school just a minute away and exploring that hidden path at the end of Pebble Street.
I like to think it's Luna's gift to me, even though she probably doesn't know of my little hidden town.
Still, that doesn't stop the smile from forming on my face in the waking world as my adult responsibilities are shoved to the side in favor of the fond memories I cherish so dearly, just for the time being.
Author's Note
There are many things we remember that become unnecessary as life goes on. Names of friends. Home phone numbers. The food from school cafeterias.
One of my most prominent things just so happens to be the layout of my childhood home. Even though there's no chance I'll ever be able to see its interior again, it's a fond memory that has stuck in my brain like glue and will be taken to my grave. A small part of me wants it back, but knows it'll never happen...at least, not in real life.
That's what writing is for.
And that's exactly why I wrote this story.
