About a week ago, my childhood home caught fire, resulting in a fatality. It happened in the middle of the afternoon, with multiple workers pouring concrete right outside. The state fire marshal has not released the cause.
I discovered this happened by being tagged on Facebook by a childhood friend whose grandma still lives a couple of doors down from there. The front of the house was featured news by the local big city station, with additional pics of the burnt out window of my former bedroom.
The house had been completely redone, and the workers outside were pouring a concrete slab where my father's nasty garages used to be. My first thought was: What did he do? I know the outrage he would've had when alive over the idea of someone even touching "his" things, let alone changing them completely. My second thought was: What did the house do? I grew up terrified of fire. I prayed deep into the night many, many times that I wouldn't die in a fire. My sis also had nightmares and fears of fire. I had awful, bloody nightmares centering around my bedroom. In her mental illness, my mother tried (unsuccessfully) to set herself on fire one Christmas.
Every day I scan the news wondering what caused it, what caused that poor woman to die in the middle of a day with a huge group of people outside her door.