The Green Giant’s Lair

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.