It’s empty. The house that is. The only thing inside it is a glass, the glass is empty too. It wasn’t always empty though. At one point in time, it held some rather nice red wine, Torciano Fragolino if my memory serves me correct. It spilled during your last fight, it was knocked off the table as you two wrestled spilling its contents onto the new white rug you’d bought the other day. Funny that, that’s what set you off. Years of cheating and drunken slurs towards you from him, and you finally snapped because he spilt some goddamned wine.
The rug still has those shades of crimson, like blood that was left out to dry, I couldn’t get the stains out, no matter how much I tried. I remember walking through the door; everything had a red tint. The rug was red, from the wine and his life, your best dress pants soaking it up just as well as the fibres of your latest shopping splurge. I lived in the house for three more years, even after you were locked away for killing my father. I’d say “your husband” but that didn’t mean anything to either of you,till death do us apart doesn’t mean anything anymore either. You both cheated and fought over inane things, the big things like your debt left to fester quietly in the corners of the house like some wretched insane anger waiting for that perfect moment to break out.
After I was left alone, I bought all new furniture, but I never went into the dining room, never picked up that stupid glass. I never washed the walls, ridding it of its red shade that had lingered through the entire house after the murder. But now, I’m very sick of it. I’m sick of you, my own mother who’s trying to convince me to go to the police, to tell them it was self-defense. Get me out of this stupid place sweet heart, you say to me. I say no and you start to scream and cry and curse, and yell threats through the bullet-proof glass believing that it would make me change my mind.
So now, the entire street is basking in an angry red glow, as that stupid house starts to burn down, with that empty glass inside. I won’t be surprised when they rummage through the remains and ashes, they ‘d find a crystal wine glass, laying on its side, probably half-melted under the destruction it caused. Because really, I can’t help but feel that it’s all that wine glass’ fault, even though it’s already empty now. I can’t help but wish that it’d been empty that day too.