Bod Lon Deb: The house on the end of the street where the
beast lives. In the recluse Welsh village of Machynlleth, the slate roofed,
three story mansion stands amongst the council flats and bungalows. Sickly
green vines are draped around the cold grey exterior, following the cracks in
the autumn coloured bricks. The Windows cannot be seen beneath the waterfall of
botanical mesh. A hole is crudely cut into the vines, revealing a bare wood
door, still damp from the rain.
I remember spending hours sitting complacently on the icy
white sofa. Staring, mouth ajar, at the sponge shaped television set. The
curtain are constantly closed. Not due to fear of light, but lack of motivation
to fight against the rust and grime that has gathered on top of the curtain
rail. Lit only by the T.V, the shadow of the sofa flickers and flashes on the
grotty, piss coloured wallpaper. Shimmers of light run down the shiny oak
flooring in a river of fluorescent primary colours. Cushions are littered like Lilly
pads on a pond, allowing my dainty feet to avoid touching the freezing floor
and traverse to the kitchen. Leaves covering the window act as a filter
creating a green tint over all the faded crockery and utensils. Back of the
kitchen, furthest away from the window, the wall stands in the darkness
cradling the kitchen’s necessities with its shadow. The whirring of the
computer positioned in the corner of the room, next to the dining table, covers
the neglectful silence. Hanging like a suicide victim in the middle of the
room, a wax stick sways. The green ray of light crawls around the creases on
the vomit coloured sticks, projecting a fluorescent yellow on the dust which
circulates around due to the draft. Twelve flies sit on the stick, slightly
fidgeting in an attempt to break free from the wax prison that binds them to
their soon to be grave.
The door to the bathroom is broken in the middle forcing
occupants to push the top and bottom half at the same time to avoid it falling
apart. Lacking in a light bulb, and a window, you must leave the door open when
relieving yourself to be able to see. You don’t have the luxury of sitting down
either as there is no toilet seat. A moist rope is held up by a strong piece of
steel above the toilet. Pulling the thick noose results in a few seconds of
rumbling emanating from the porcelain chamber above your head, before a
slightly grey liquid erupts from around the toilet bowl, pushing the solid turd
down the plumbing.
“Antiques for
Dummies” sits as a door stop for the bedroom, allowing a clear pathway for a
thick, sheepskin rug to run up the hallway on the top floor. Muddy footsteps on
the rug lead to wellington boots placed left to the king sized bed. One ‘Zoo’
magazine is sprawled in the middle of the bed; the centre folding in the
unintended direction due to being hastily thrown across the room. Heavy curtains
are slightly parted here casting an intense beam of heavenly light onto the T.V
making it impossible to see what program is on. The blurry motion of two moths
can be seen flying around a dim light which you would not realise was on
without turning it off.
