(content warning: death/suicide)
The world unfurled before her, empty without the presence of her sister to keep her company among these melancholy walls. She had never known the elusive figure well- always hidden behind a curtain of youth or kept away by force, seeing of her sister only the slammed door and hearing only tears. Tears of her sister had been not grief, but something worse; a waking nightmare lurked in the sorrowful notes of incessant dissonance. She wished she could have known why those tears trickled down her face, but now she only knew the emptiness of the house without another being to keep her lonesome soul company; It felt hollow. Too empty of colour and too drained of well-purposed joy. Too full of death and yet numb to the spell of time, that stole so many lives away behind the veil of mystery. So it was not relief she felt as she got to her feet, her head aching at the blow of her head against the bare, unremorseful stone; If only the bedsheets were not so rough. That was the thing about this place- something was always wrong. A light did not work. If a light did not work, then the stairs creaked as she walked on them, giving a birdsong of complaint and threatening to give way to an eternal abyss. However, the terror lay not in that but in the silence after. And the water from the sky always dripped and trickled through so that the cold stone soaked her, the stale cloud of ice that coated it grinning to its unwilling victim. Things had been better with another face to wake up to. She walked drearily to the stairs, crept down recklessly, and found at her feet a letter. It was from a friend she knew well. She read it, terror trickling down her spine:
Where have you been, old friend? I know you would never do this if all was well. Please let us meet tomorrow.
And this was not the only one; perhaps she had got used to this. The piles of letters from floor to ceiling. The looming typewriter inviting her to reply. But she simply could not face it. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. But she had thought that for years- that yesterday turned into today- that yesterday once again turned to today. Today. Today she'd reply. Today she'd glance not upon them with contempt but with compassion. Perhaps she'd have done it yesterday if she couldn't see the doubt creeping up and give up. Perhaps.
YOU ARE READING
Reflected sorrows
HororA lost, grieving soul enters the jaws of an insatiable beast, where the eyes of uncannily well-preserved paintings reach for her weary, lonesome corpse like crows. This mansion has no history to be felt or heard; it's as if the rooms are hollow and...
