If there was ever a man I could trust, that man would be my dad. He has always kept his promises and I cannot remember a time in my life where he was not there for me. My father is a gentle, understanding, intelligent type of guy that has always made smart choices. However, I did not think so when he bought me a house. I was very upset when he first showed me my new abode. For the first time in my life, I doubted my father. The 1906 Queen Ann house should have been demolished by the city of Harriman by the looks of it. The porch was falling apart, the base of the house was unstable, and the residents before me were convicted of drug selling and had been killed in the house. It was very difficult for me, even as an artist, to visualize the outcome of my newly carpeted two-story cardboard box.
The out side of the house looked neglected, the yard had not been mowed for at least ten years, and trash was lying all over the place. It looked like one of those houses you would warn your own children to stay away from. With the back door broken, the house was capable of having dangerous unwanted guests. It was falling apart, with only the decades of memories holding it together. The eyes of the home were no longer full of life but cracked and shattered on the ground. The roof was no longer able to keep its heart warm and dry. I sighed to myself and looked at my father, wondering if he had gone mad.
The inside of the house was even worse. The walls were grimy with their five to six layers of paint and wallpaper. The floor was either...