Cold by Valeria Shmagun

Entering this room always
it feels like winter to him. It’s just a simple plain dining room back at his first house, where he lived as a kid till his 14th birthday. Then he moved to a boarding school and never after was able to call this place home, after what has happened here back then. He visited his uncle occasionally there, but never stayed even over one night. It was impossible for him even to eat inside, and he always tries to run away as fast as possible, yet still needs to be polite to his family.
Well, needed until three days ago as he was notice of inheriting this place and of the fact of his last relative passing away. Even now, when he needed to come here in funeral business, and along with that to sell this hell house with any discounts needed to make it faster, he decided to stay at the hotel.
Actually, it wasn’t fair enough to call it hell. Maybe, some would consider it nice and good-looking. Kind of ideal house from some average American dream, comfy for the family of father, mother, two kids for sure and a big kind labradoodle. He doesn’t have a sibling – who knows whether that’s the reason they were never happy here? Anyway, the house was pretty good, realtor for two hours now was admired its classical modern style and white bright walls.
He wasn’t listening. Just looking at this old wooden countertop was making his nauseous. Despite the age of this house, the dining room was still very neat and clean, always well-taken care of. Its walls still were fair and good-looking, but with a little yellow age plague and dark quality wood of expansive even on the look kitchen set still has its exclusively glossy shine. Every time looking at the long massive table he sees the same thing.
He knows it’s just his brain playing with him, but the cherry shades of its wood were so alike to the blood that was spilled on it more than 12 years ago. He knows. But still he again can feel like all his viscera become frozen, his hands and lips always remain ice-cold here, now he feels it better than ever. The last thing he remembers before passing away was this shiny red gloss on the table and his snowy fingers.