There’s something about that first moment you walk in the door. It doesn’t hit you until that moment, that hopeful feeling, that sensation of a fresh start. The build up is excruciating; hours spent waiting in line at the bank to get the cashier’s check, then signing papers, last minute negotiations in the closing offices, and signing more papers. Then the keys are handed to you; small chunks of jagged metal but still ultimately meaningless. Then the drive, winding through suburban neighborhoods with broad grassy parks, dead end cul-de-sacs, and sprawling brick schools, until you arrive at the driveway.
We sat in the driveway for a while, silent and smiling. It was the first thing we had ever bought together, the first thing that truly made me and her an us. It was large, and new, and pale blue and full of hope and optimism.
“I cant believe we did it,” she said.
I smiled and nodded silently.
“We will be the first people to set foot in it as owners,” she said.
“I know,” I whispered.
“Well,” she urged, “should we go in?”
“In a minute,” I said.
She unbuckled her seat belt and swung open her door.
“In a minute my ass,” she said. “Come on, let’s go already, I can’t wait anymore.”
I killed the engine and swung open my door. I eased myself out of the driver’s seat and closed the door again. I stood there as she, half ran, half skipped up to the front door. She jiggled the doorknob and looked back at me anxiously. I sighed and started strolling up to the porch.
“Come on, come on, come on,” she kept nudging. “Let’s go, I wanna go in, I wanna see it!”
I stuck the brand new key, with it’s sharp, unworn edges into the lock and twisted. The mechanism inside popped and the door unsealed against the jamb. I pushed the door and it swung open with a whoosh, like an airlock opening on an outer space movie.
A cold blast of air hit my face, confronted by the central air conditioning. She giggled and squealed. She bounced up and down like a six year old on too much sugar.
“Lets go lets go lets go lets go lets go,” she insisted.
Bouncing she pushed past me and jumped into our new house. I stepped inside behind her. It had that smell, like new cars and new homes, and new things have. It smelled clean and fresh and wide with possibility. It felt like a home, like a place to grow, to change, to settle.
“Do you love it?” I asked.
“Yes!” she breathed. “Yes, I love it so much.”
“Good I said,” and put my hands in my pockets. “I’m so glad,” I said and pulled the revolver out of my pocket.
She turned to face me just as I raised the gun level. Her face went blank with confusion, and before it could change to fear I pulled the trigger.
When her body hit the ground a thought crossed my mind. Am I going to have to disclose this in the listing?