Mastace stepped over the threshold and into Briggan's home and took a look around.
" Woah," he said,
" Yeah, I don't get visitors very often."
" I can tell. This place looks - "
" Trashed?"
" No," Mastace said. " I was thinking ... neglected."
Briggan tilted his head to the side a little. " Neglected?"
Mastace nodded. " This place just hasn't been cleaned in a long time, so it looks like this. If this place had been trashed, the vibe of this room would be different."
" Oh, " Briggan said, unable to say anything else. Mastace took another look around the room. From what he saw, the walls were white and the flooring was something to the effect of a marble tile. The lights were off and Mastace wondered if the electricity was, in fact, still working.
How long had he been alone in this Hell of what seems to be of his design?
Briggan hated how things looked at the present moment. He knew this wasn't very habitable, nor very inviting; in fact, he hated living here. It wasn't necessarily the fact that it was a mess, but it was all the memories that originated from inside the four walls that barely held this house together. The shadows of all that had once been still lingering around here and Briggan knew he was suffering immensely for it, yet he couldn't seem to abandon the only place he'd ever called home. He was still clinging on for dear life. The thought of this sent chills down his spine.
Clinging onto dead memories in hopes of finding life.