Looking up from the bottom of Cerulean Hill, one might have mistaken it for a nice place. The pale blue paint seemed innocent enough. The clean, white picket fence surrounded the yard with the promise of keeping bad guys out.

In reality, it was too late; they were already inside.

To strangers passing through, it was just another home. To the kids in our town, it was forbidden fruit, the place they had been warned away from since they were infants. To their parents, it was an invitation to shake heads and count blessings.

But to us, it was very simple.

It was the place where we stayed inside and rotted in strife.

On rare, glorious days when humid air and liquor lulled the monsters upstairs to sleep, I would creep outside and sit on the tire swing in the back yard, wondering why no one had come to save us yet.

Years later, from my safe haven at the bottom of Cerulean Hill, reluctance and apathy heavy in my heart, I could finally understand why.