twisted beautiful things

xviii. lullabies

xviii. lullabies

'the world on fire, let's celebrate

let's have a toast while we sit and we watch

the whole world go up in flames

we lost our minds

we going cray

we let a racist orange man be our president

ain't that just fuckin great?'

(bazzi)

atticus

Since their first appearance, the ghost children have revisited my door every night. My dreams are besieged by their haunted voices, their dulcet tones that seemed to lengthen the night until it feels like years instead of hours.

Every night, at two am, they show up at my door. Weeping. Calling out for help. Singing. Murmuring.

It starts when I can hear them beginning their song at the end of the hallway, their soft, hushed tones like the wind breezing over the grass. Like a dry, cracked piano singing it's haunting notes.

And then they stand outside of my bedroom door and sing their chilling song, over and over and over, until I can no longer see or think about anything but ghosts and thorns and poison and fire and cherries and heaven and acid and tears until I fall into a fitful, restless sleep with their words echoing in my ear. They only stay for an hour, before their voices fade away into the background and are not to be heard of until the next night.

I'd asked my friends in neighboring dorms if they have heard anything strange at night. All of them say no, except for Jack who insists that he can hear Dom snoring from all the way across the hall.

So it's just me being tortured every night.

Slowly, painfully until I feel as if I have gone mad. Left to toss and turn in my bed, waiting for sleep to take over my body, waiting for that agonizing hour to dwindle away.

It's not just me, however; my friends are still being haunted by their own ghosts. Julian keeps seeing Mr. Lurker everywhere he goes, along with Amir who always catches glimpses of Top Hat Man. Gianna's bathroom ghost keeps appearing, Novella's mirror keeps knocking at no particular time of day, and Kennedy's portrait girl, Hannah, has seemingly disappeared from her frame, absent for the past few days.

There is nothing to be done except go through business as usual. Because so far these spirits haven't hurt us at all, and Gianna and Kennedy are convinced their ghost friends are good. But I have my doubts, because who can trust a dead person?

As for me, I've considered putting headphones on at night, but something about ghosts children singing at my door without me being able to listen for any sounds of the door opening unsettles me.

Every night, I close and lock my door shut tight, knowing that at least something separating me from these children gives me a sense of security.

That's why when, on an early Tuesday morning at 1:59 am, I feel okay to wash my fade in the attached bathroom to my room, knowing that the door was shut closed.

The pale light of the tiny bathroom portrays my skin as sickly, almost jaundiced as I towel my face off, turning off the tap.

Dark circles have become permanent under my eyes from the lack of sleep, a trickle of water tracing down from my hairline to drip off the edge of my jaw.