The Fall of Hope

Desolate, decaying and, well, abandoned. I walk down a specific street I know well, turn left into a cul-de-sac and walk slowly to the end. 24, 26, 28…. as I look at the last number on the left side of the street, 30, I turn up the pathway and walk to the front door. I remember painting that number, a gradient rainbow which is now cracked and faded in front of the familiar house filled with memories. I try the door, it's locked but when I push hard it gives way, opening into a small hallway. The photos on the wall are cracked and dusty but still recognisable. Brushing some dust away from a small sized photo, I see my face peering back at me in a formal uniform. I've never been one for dressing up but I did for my school photos. Honey brown hair, green eyes, small height for my age of 15 back then, I look like mum. I look at a few more pictures and pick up the one of my whole family. Mum, Dad, My brother, My sister and me. I turn the photo around, pull off the back and take out the photo. It was taken four years ago, before everything went to hell.