This sense of foreboding has been chasing me, biting at my heels, making me look over my shoulder, back round every corner.

And I get home.

And the windows are bleeding smoke.

I can feel the heat choking me from here.

My house has grown red hair and spits at me, hating me for that time I spilt paint on the stairs, flooded the kitchen, smashed the window, burnt the cake.

This is not home.