The house: D'souza's Residence.

House. The kind of house that is built and not made. They lived underneath the same roof, looking at each other with silent contempt and disgust. You could never hear shrieks of laughter. It didn't smell like home. It didn't allow them to let go of their fear. Instead, the house howled with cries of silence. The silence which prevails after a long lost argument. The silence which reeks of anger, that which speaks a thousand words of denial and disappointment. They were strangers to each others world, each others emotions. There was a constant battle amongst the three of them. Who could hurt the other more? A battle with themselves. Who could continue to hold on to their ego even after the other had given up.
They were afraid, you can say. Afraid of what the other might do to  rip them of their dignity and self respect. Afraid that they would lose themselves a little more. They were tired, you can say. Tired of hurting themselves and then searching for a reason, a chance to seek revenge upon the other.
They lived in the same house. To the world outside they were a family. D' souza's. The semi furnished wooden door had undergone an intense one day carving session to make it easier for the visitors to trace where the D'souza's lived. Lived? They lived inside the house like disjoint letters of English alphabet.
They lived in the same house. A house that didn't sing to them a lullaby to drive home the wheels of sleep. But a house that robbed them of their dreams and replaced them with nightmares.