The house at the end of Graves St. looked almost like it was perched above the
surrounding neighborhood. Not necessarily intimidating, just an ever present kind of place, as if
it knew everything and therefore had a right to its position. The sole resident of the house was
a woman, a female figure who looked about as crooked as her home. Her skin was wrinkled and
creased like un-ironed button ups, lips pursed permanently into a look of loneliness.

A thin layer of dust coated the aging furniture, floral curtains danced in window frames
like ghosts. Irene slowly found her way to the bedroom, hallways stretched before her like they
were gymnasts. The bed fit two, but settled for one; that night it dreamed of love sleeping on its pillows. She lied down, and felt the weight of solitude press against her. Her hands trembled
to find their way to the empty spot next to her, the sheets carried memories of nightmares, like
the inversed version of a dream catcher. The music of her shallow breathing filled the air, her
resistant eyelids fighting off the urge to snap shut; no sleep is worth the hell that ensues.

She groaned as she lifted herself out of bed and shuffled to the doorway. There was a
short corridor that ran from her bedroom to the kitchen, and her feet made their small
footsteps to the cupboard. She pulled out a bottle of wine and poured herself a glass. There
was nothing elegant nor beautiful to this act; she was not a young, vivacious lady any more.
She was sacrificing herself to a glass of liquid solution, problems slipped from her mind like they
were eager to escape. There was no glamour in this, no innocence can be found in someone
who’s eyes are not empty, just full of regret and a lack of light. Her tongue felt heavy in her mouth, and tears rolled down her cheeks. She knew that love was a never ending continuum, full of sorrow and remorse, and she wished it non-existent.

Irene remembered him like it was yesterday. Young and charismatic, with eyes so full of
charm that her parents couldn’t of helped but approve. He was perfect for her. They were
engaged, in love, and happy.

The funeral had almost killed her.

They had been beautiful together. An image of the American dream: happy and hopelessly, thoroughly in love. When he had been drafted into the war, they were terrified. He didn’t pretend to be brave. He was honest; she wouldn’t have believed in his false courage anyways. After he left, she didn’t leave her bedroom for three days. Wrapped up in blankets that smelled of him and tears that bled eyes dry, she waited. She figured that being a patriot must be the best thing she could do, and so she signed up for shifts as a volunteer nurse. She watched men die, she left covered in blood and smelling of fear.

It was three years before he came home, but it wasn’t him. The man standing in her living room looked like him, but the boy that had left her was gone. She looked older too, graying under the pressure of death’s laughter and constant presence. He drank from bottles like he was praying for savior, and not a night went by without a hit, a scream.

It was two months home when the rope burned around his neck. She found him dangling like a charm. There was no note or last act of love; he no longer loved her.

Now she has become old, alone. She is not the only one living our American Dream.