Little Pink House
By: Naught-But-Mortal
Disclaimer: Being Human belongs to some guy and the company associated with him. As I am not part of that company, I can claim no legal rights to show.
Summary: Annie, upon realizing that her house is no longer her home.
The layout of the house confuses her. There are rooms where there shouldn't be rooms; kitchens, and tapestries, and paintings that look like they belong in the hotel room of someone longing to be somewhere else. She is lucky, then, she supposes; because a house is not a home without friends.
Still, there are parts of her entwined in the in the floorboards, the tile, the plumbing of that old pink flat in Bristol (the place of her death). The heartbeat of the house lives in her useless veins; seeps into her consciousness so that, even though she is, physically (or whatever part of physicality she owns), wandering around Cardiff, her soul is in that stupid little house, the house that she and Owen built, or thought of building (there would be no child calling her Mum).
She is grateful to be away from the eternity of waiting in that starkly white room; but sometimes, when she closes her eyes and pretends she's sleeping (it's a lie, that tale of the dead who sleep), she can see the stairway, the embraces , the transformations of what was not human into human; and she longs with every part of herself to be in the pink house just down the way.