There’s a house across the street that is in pieces. I live in a basement apartment of a house that is easily worth half a million. This is not a neighborhood where houses are left to fall apart. When I looked out the window three days ago, this house looked like any other modest mid-century house sitting quietly in the shadows cast by the looming modern designs boxing it in. The next day its roof was gone. Then all the interior walls. The interior floor was red like it was bleeding. All that’s left now is the brick chimney and the sage green wood shingle facade. The Southern-California-in-West-Seattle style landscaping in the front is comically still intact. The blood red floor is covered with a gigantic blue tarp now. There’s a chain link fence around the edge of the lawn. I have no idea why the house is being torn apart nor have I ever seen a house taken down in this particular fashion.
It makes me anxious, and I can’t quite figure out why. Maybe it’s because all the other houses seem so unaffected by its destruction. Don’t they know they are next?