Fresh Paint

Was there any point in Steve reading the Bank Statement, his
finances had been getting steadily worse for months. Now he was faced
with a decision, the house would have to go! It had been his Dads,
virtually paid off when he inherited it, but he had re-mortgaged it to
the hilt and borrowed against it, so now he owed more than it was
worth.
Steve sat in his Dad's old chair, in the nicotine stained old room
where his Dad had sat smoking his pipe. He remembered being a kid and
tearing around the room with his Mum smiling in her flowery apron. Dad
then, was always out grafting, that had stopped though when Mum had
died.

So many memories, so much hard work, this had been his parents pride
and joy, and now he had squandered it away on drugs, drink and girls.
Now though he had none of that, left behind far too late to save the
house. These things, he thought, have a way of not mattering until it's
too late.

Steve looked at the rope hanging from the beam, his fathers horseshoes
were displayed on, and stepped onto the upturned bucket, he had vomited
in many times from excess. He pulled the noose over his head. By the
door he could still see his Mum kindly smiling at him in infinite
gentleness. Then he kicked the bucket. Steve wasn't found for weeks,
the local kids named the house the mausoleum for months after he was
found. That was two years ago, now the house contains Mr and Mrs
Stevenson and their young boy Michael. Mr Stevenson is a grafter too,
and the house smiles with fresh paint again.