Don't be like Diana Hill

Chapter One: Green Rooms

I used to have a room.

It was painted the shade of green you would see on trees during the spring. Not bright enough to hurt your eyes, but warm enough to hold memories and a hug. I remembered how young I was before the white was covered entirely. Around seven I think. My mother handed me my very first paint brush and she swept the bristles on my nose, arising a giggle from me.

She let me paint the first stroke, I drew a heart. I wanted to draw a bee but I found that too difficult. With no artistic abilities just yet, the heart was perfect. We drew and played games, around four rounds of tic tac toe which she had let me win. We even painted a little house on the corner, a little house on the hill overlooking the sea. It's been my dream place to live in ever since. Young Diana found it a great faulty incident that we weren't living up to the family name and living on a hill. She'd scold her parents every time they passed one and say, "That could be us right now." But her parents would only and always ever just shake their heads and laugh and probably distract her with an ice cream truck nearby.

I still remember the handprints we pressed into the wall. It was right in the very center. My father had walked in during that and was very particular with mathematical arrangements, he had mentally measured it just for us. Though, as a young child, I'd argue and say it wasn't centered. They both laughed and took my hand, allowing me to make the first mark.

The green room bled with the warmth of the sunlight, rushing in through the large window facing the field. With the constant reminder of my grandmother not to sit under the light for too long in fear that I'd catch a terrible sunburn. I never listened and grew tan with a love for the warm touch.

The green room was a keeper. It kept stuff that I never could understand. I never understood what my parents did, but they always came home drained and grey. Younger Diana would read them bedtime stories until they fell asleep on the couch. It continued for years until I was twelve and decided to stop.

—-

I glanced at the clock, it was three minutes past midnight. The files on my table weren't a help to manage through in the dark. I pushed a button and rummaged through a drawer for a flashlight and began sorting through the papers. I knew my parent's held slightly inconspicuous jobs, my mother who took forensic science and my dad a chemist who did who knows what. He was a very secretive person.

As I pick up the last file, titled "November 1st, The Marsh Theory." The theory which believed that, there was a second and very high energy between time and space which molded with colors and the sorts. Like a marsh, this space would be flooded with energy and habitants that the eye can't see. The author of this theory, Anthony Dunn, believed that it was the very same energy that controlled the very existence of faith. I was on a search to find this author, their location somehow held behind locked doors.

My alarm went off at exactly 12:08 am, January 17th. I smiled, though my eyes were exhausted I had already planned everything out on paper. The feeling of knowing a great comfort to a day's start.

I march out the room with the files in one hand and a flashlight in the other, (a mistake of mine since I still hadn't gotten the lights fixed yet), I stop right before the door. There's a short square table right next to it and I bend down and point my flashlight directly at it. A singular cupcake frosted in a nice shade of green with a singular grey candle to accompany it. Dull color but the only one they had at the shop. The candle lit up, pulling a smirk from my face, my flashlight match had worked. I bent down and made a special wish for my eighteenth birthday.

It's been a long long time.

Exactly six years since everything went wrong. Six years since Charles Hill disappeared and five since Isobel Hill went crazy. Four years since my grandmother sat on the windowsill of the green room, eyes burning from the sunlight she told me to avoid. Six years of the domino of my faults. A product of irreversible damage.

Imagine the growing hole in the pit of the stomach a twelve-year-old had to endure, as she sat on the porch of her own home, tears failing to fall as that awful mixture of fear and hatred rose just because she had wandered. The very first time she hadn't obeyed the laws of her own house, did the chemistry begin to turn into flames. She wished she didn't see what she saw, she wished she didn't leave. She wished the forest didn't try to take her away. She wished she never painted that goddamn green room.

Which has brought me to the conclusion I've tried and tested over the years, the conclusion which led me to the burning passion that almost drove me off cliffs.

Burn Down the Green room.

A/N

It is short, may be disappointing, but yes, have fun, ty for reading.