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The Viewing
The agent shows me inside, and as I walk in, the smell hits me; a mixture of mildew and cats. I wrinkle my nose, unable to hide my disgust. The agent closes the door, shutting out every hope of fresh air. He turns and smiles apologetically at me. I can only manage a grimace, so focused am I on not seeing my breakfast in reverse, though it couldn’t possibly make this place any worse.
He leads me down the hall, past peeling wallpaper that looks like it’s stepped out of the seventies. The living room is crammed full of knick-knacks, and filthy furniture in a garish shade of orange. Cobwebs hang from the crooked faux chandelier, and a large spider leers at me as it traverses the dusty silken threads of its web.
“It obviously needs a bit of work, but lots of potential here.” The agent says in a falsely cheery voice that makes me long to strangle him. Completely oblivious, he turns and marches out of the room, leading me further into hell.
As we step into the kitchen, I can’t suppress my gasp. There are a couple of cupboards, one of which has its door hanging off. There is a battered old Formica table, thick enough with grime and grease that you could write in it. An old, and probably hugely uneconomical fridge stands to attention against the far wall, with some kind of liquid oozing from it and pooling around it like a moat. The…
