Abandoned House

When I was small, I feared abandoned things. I’d shiver when passing an abandoned house. I’d look away from broken toys in the streets, dumped dogs with their colourful collars still around their necks. I held onto everything, never threw anything away. I held on to notes, meaningless knick knacks, broken china, raggedy stuffed animals, everything ever gifted to me. I had a fear that once I abandoned anything, it would become empty and hollow, and thus hospitable for something evil to crawl right in and inhabit it, like a slug does to an empty shell.