My Basement

                It is a very ordinary thing to do. It is not a terrifying, gruesome or despicable mission to get some bread from my freezer in the basement. It is an uncomplicated task that some people complete with effortlessness. But some people have not witnessed the eerie crypt that my family insists as referring to as my basement.

         My basement is a sinister, spine- chilling grotto. Of course, only few people have seen this enigmatic area. The basement begins with a small room with a game system and a television. The walls are painted with whimsical images of bunnies, butterflies and flowers. Although that description completely contradicts the image I just portrayed, that is the deceit my basement inflicts upon you. That is because when you open the door and exit from the brightly lit gaming space, you enter a dark dungeon where you must evade tables, chairs, and other pieces of useless items to reach a lone light bulb, flickering in the middle of the room. It is anything but whimsical.

         Once you turn the light on, the copious amounts of junk overwhelms you. As you gaze at the disarray of stuff in my basement you can’t help but smell cold and stale air. As you gingerly step across the chilly unfinished floors, you can feel grit underneath your feet. But that does not disturb you half as much as the old- fashioned baby doll sitting on a miniature chair with its two glistening eyes staring at you. Upon seeing that you partly expect the head of the doll to rotate three hundred and sixty degrees and wear a frightening smile.

         After you catch your breath and your heart has returned to beating at a normal pace, you finally remember that the sole reason you willingly entered this bloodcurdling cavern. You now wade through unfinished paintings, saved wrapping paper, wicker baskets, chairs and tables, a five-year subscription’s worth of Victoria and Martha Stewart magazines. You dart around random chunks of wood, a crafts table made out of an unused door, half empty paint cans, outdated hockey cards, obsolete tapes and cassettes, and about a dozen Xerox boxes filled with mysterious documents written with a typewriter.
         
         Now that your heart is beating loud enough you feel as if it is coming out your ears, you scamper to the freezer and hastily grab the bread and sprint up the stairs faster than you ever thought was humanly possible. Finally once you slam the bread on the counter, you see the fibre-enriched proof that illustrates that you have made it through my labyrinth style basement. You exhale all of your fears and uneasy emotions that welled up inside of you while trekking through my basement. All is at peace again until my mother makes another detestable request.


         “Would you go and check d see if the freezer is shut?”