I gaze onto the old red brick house, as I have for years, from the kitchen side window. I rest my chin in the crease of my elbow and trust the windowsill to support me. The old red brick house is a dying landmark in our town, like a skeleton propped up in the middle of town square. I sympathize with the old red brick house—no one will let it die likes it deserves. Despite being deemed unsafe by the city, the collective townspeople have decided that the old red brick house’s historical value outweighs the promise it has to collapse. There is no historical value. The house is just old. It has been dying for a long time and will die for a much longer time, condemned to a life of boredom, unable to serve its intended purpose of being a home.

“Honey, why don’t you come sit with the rest of the family?” My mother politely disrupts my gazing, peeking her head in from the dining room doorway. I won’t go because I can hear my family’s conversation from where I sit: dying, the rhythm untimed and unpredictable. It reminds me of the sound of the old red brick house’s pieces falling within. My family’s conversation and relation has no substance—it only has the constant tendency to be falling apart. Slowly, ever so slowly.

I was at the old red brick house only an hour ago. On my way home from the market I stopped to stare. I looked up at it and it peered down at me. “Will I ever see excitement again?” we mutually asked each other. “Not here,” we mutually answered. The door to the old red brick house had been gone a long time, but no one ever entered out of a fear for the unknown. I thought the old house deserved the presence of a person in it’s entryway for once after all the years. My visit was brief, and as I exited, I knew that I would likely be the last person to ever set foot inside.

Besides, the family longs for my presence no more than I long for theirs. I’ve overheard the words they’ve described me as: “strange,” “unlike the other girls at this age,” “oddly introverted.” “Manic” was one of my favorites, because Aunt Lindy really meant to use the word “creepy” when she said it. But to retaliate against my family for their descriptions would be to signify that I are believe that they are untrue. Which, of course, they are not.

“Honey,” my mother persists. I audibly sigh as I rise from my perch so she knows I am unhappy with the situation at hand. I enter the dining room and take a place at the corner of the table. My presence is unacknowledged, barring the few awkward side-glances I receive from various cousins. The flimsy buzz of unsubstantial table conversation ravages on as my family loudly discusses absolutely nothing. I feel awkward, the way a rabbit in a room full of foxes may feel awkward. No, rather—I am awkward, the way a fox in a room full of rabbits may be awkward. I reach for the mashed potatoes, hoping that this action might be enough to be considered a contribution to the conversation. I wonder, does the dying old red brick house ever feel awkward to be the only one of its kind?

A loud bang is suddenly heard from outside and the earth shakes mildly. The family shouts with a stifled terror—Aunt Lindy leaps from her seat to peer out the dining room window. A gasp stems from her toucan-esque beak. “The Old Brick House! It’s ablaze!” As the rest of the family hurries towards the window to get a glance at the excitement, I silently judge Aunt Lindy for her use of the word “ablaze.” I do not rise from my seat. As the family shout-argues over this rare drama, I pray that none of them noticed the lingering gasoline smell on my coat. I reach into my back pocket and ensure that my lighter is still there. It will make such a precious keepsake of this holiday in a few year’s time.

—By Cassie N., 17, Redding, California