This is a small piece of a piece I'm writing about the burned out house. I'm seeking feedback.
The smell is some combination of thick boiling vinegar, jade green mildew, and brimstone. Not everything burned, not even most of it, the face of the house lobotomized and uncanny, but still covered in warm tan wooden shingles. My bedroom door is black on the outside, but the inside is a cheek covered in runny mascara, from the way the smoke and the water intermingled. It was closed when the fire tore down the hallway. In the intervening months since the firefighters sprayed 1.516501 olympic sized swimming pools of water through my broken bedroom window, November and December have passed, and January left chunks of ice floating in my laundry basket. I stripped and tried to lay on my bed—curled up and facing the spot where I’d stand exposed, trying on clothes for my mother to prove they no longer fit— but it too was icy and I couldn’t bear to lay my bare skin down upon it. It, like every soft surface in the house, was speckled with black mold. I put my clothes back on.