The little plastic house

On the surface it is just a corner on the elementary playground. Grass cut level to everything else, a brightly paint plastic house for kids to play in, little wooden cutouts of flowers to make a image of a flower filled yard.

Nice and pleasant. Innocent even, at the surface.

But no one plays there. No kid has ever been seen crawling into that little house with the bright wood flowers in the cheery coloured walls. No one steps close to the place, always weaving around it on instinct alone. When asked no one has an answer for it either.

Some would say they didnt notice.
Some claim they just have no reason to play near it.
Some get defensive and tell you to stop.
Some, some will give an answer.

There is something unspoken about the small plastic house in the corner of the playground. A feeling of pain and fear, the taste of copper and salt. The sensation of phantom fingers over your arms and a choking hiccup in your throat. No one can really name what it is, the adults brush it off as just being an uncanny kid thing about the place. The children though, they feel something deep and frightening about the small space. Something that makes them weary and to a few, the poor few, something deeply familiar that makes them fall mute to the dawning hollowness.

No one plays in the plastic house, with its mockly bright flowers and cold colorful walls. No one goes near the neatly trimmed grass by the walls, in the shade of the echoing silence of something not there anymore. No one wanders and wonders out of curiosity through the little door.

And if someone does go in? Be it because they dont feel the aura of the place or are shoved in by a cruel peer?

No one comes to the rescue of the crying child.