The house that we lived in was perfect. At the time we moved in, it was the early summer of 2014. Daddy was the manager for one of the largest power corporations in the world, and Momma was a probation officer. It was my mother, my father, and me, forever and always. I never really had any friends or extended family unless I was staying on my grandparents' farm during the summer.

As a kid, our house was small. It was a two-bedroom starter home in whatever suburban landscape that rural Georgia could provide us with, and it was the first house constructed in my neighborhood. The grass was green and the neighbors had sprawling yards and space to plant trees.

The new house was like a torture chamber to me. I sat at the base of the hardwood stairs, with my knees tucked into my ribcage. My fingers were balled into fists so tight that my knuckles were white, and tears pricked at the corners of my dry eyes when I watched Daddy pull out the checkbook. As if he were signing our souls away, he filled out the slip of paper.

I remember when the house was empty. It had just been erected in the already more-than-crowded neighborhood. The houses lined concrete streets like teeth, without a single yard to be seen; only hard, cold, modern concrete. I didn't understand why we needed four bedrooms. "Daddy needs an office, and I need a place to work," Momma had explained. I knew better than to argue with adults, so I agreed to the change.

It was barren, not a piece of furniture in sight. All of our belongings were at the old house, and we had only moved the mattresses. Our voices carried, it smelled like sulfur and construction dust, and I could hear every single cicada that clung to the bug film which lined the windows like a veil.

Every time the new house groaned and settled into its final resting place, it made an eerie, deep sound like the deep rumble of a beast. The blackness through the large windows and glass backdoor seemed to swallow the house whole, even though our neighbors were closer than ever. Momma tried to make it better. She would sit on the bare floor and try to play board games since the televisions and internet were not yet set up. The sound of the die was like gunshots, and I couldn't focus long enough on counting Monopoly money because I was too busy worrying about the future.

I was right to be worried. As the years progressed, Daddy's health declined. First was his eyesight, and then the feeling in his hands and feet. Slowly, eventually, he lost volume in his form, but recuperated this in his heart. He lied there making jokes, even last September, as they took his left leg.

Then his right leg in October.

The rest was removed from the house on December 20th.

The house fell silent after that. There was no more moaning, no more pain. Only a replenished anguish. "I'm so tired of being sad all the time." Those words have stained my memory. I can't bear the thought of having to begin to believe that he would do that to us, to me, to her.

Last night, my phone buzzed. I was met with the text message: "There is a leak in the house somewhere, and the ceiling is collapsing. The plaster is peeling from the roof and littering the floors in white, clumpy puddles of mush."

The house that we lived in was perfect. It was only a shame that it wasn't perfect for us.