Dead (Violet Harmon/You)

2

Your P.O.V.

It was officially the first day moved into the new house. Last night my mother and I unpacked everything and put them into place, which didn't look too bad. We bought take out then watched a movie together. To be honest, I haven't felt this close to her in a while. Before the move she would work until the early hours of the morning which meant we barely got to see each other. It's funny how people can become strangers in their own homes. We finished the movie and I went upstairs to go to sleep, but I had the most peculiar dream. I was in the living room, laying on the floor as people surrounded me. I had never seen their faces before but they felt oddly familiar. There was a doctor, a boy with messy blonde hair, a man in a leather jacket with black hair and lots more. But there was one that stood out the most to me. She had light brown hair with the most stunning brown eyes that squinted as tears poured from them. Her pink lips quivered while they tried to speak, but it was as though someone stuck cotton in my ears. I wanted so desperately to understand but it was like the life was draining out of me, and I couldn't keep my eyes open. That's when I woke up, a slight sweat forming on my head. As I was analyzing the faces of the people in my memory, the more significant it felt. I had never had dreams like this before, so questionable and out of context. It's like when you have dreams about falling and then your body jerks violently, it leaves you wondering. I rose into a sitting position on my bed, letting the warm blanket fall down and expose my bare back and torso to the cold air. It sent chills up my arms. My sweat turned cold as a drop ran down the middle of my nose, hanging from the tip, then splashing onto my hand. I wiped the condensation from my head with the back of my arm then ran my fingers through my wet hair. I removed the blanket from my body, leaving the rest of it to freeze from the air. I rose from my bed, stretching out my tired and stiff limbs, multiple cracks and a groan arising. I padded over to my closet and pulled out a hoodie that had my old schools logo on the front of it, the same one I wore to every football game in the fall when it got frigid at night. I threw it over my head, shoving my arms through the sleeves and let it cascade down around my waist. The comfort was immense, not only temperature-wise, but emotionally as well. I knew it would calm me through this questionable journey, but the smell from my old house was already being washed away by the new ones. It's already consuming me, I thought before I opened my door and made my way down the stairs, none of them making a creek as I stepped. I found that to be odd as well. For how hold this house is, you'd think it'd show. Maybe that's the charm, it disguises its age with glossy finishing and dustless furniture. Like a silent killer; looks nice on the outside, but holds the worlds most terrifying secrets on the inside. At least, that's what I thought, anyway. I walked slowly, in no rush to get breakfast. On my way I took a look at everything like I was seeing it for the first time. Clean hallway, colorful stained glass window, a priceless chandelier. Yup, everything was as it seemed to be. I had to admit, this house put up a beautiful facade, one so decadent and simple that my mother and everyone around us seemed to believe it. Everyone, except for me. I mean, any intellectual person could see that this house is not what it seems. I knew before we even arrived. Cheapest house in the neighborhood, my mothers words rang in my ears. It was a low-blow, anyone could see that, anyone except for my mother, that is. Of course she had to fall for its murderous charm and the dark wood floors. I stumbled upon a smell that was almost foreign to me, breakfast being prepared by someone other than myself. Stiff scents of bacon hung in the air, along with a sweet aroma of pancakes. Now this caught my attention. I entered the kitchen, expecting my mother to be the one behind the stove, but was instead met with an unfamiliar face. She didn't seem to notice me as she had her head down, looking through an old cook book that my mother had. She turned to face the stove, her back facing me as she flipped a perfectly golden pancake on the griddle. She then left station one and went to the next, flipping multiple pieces of bacon on a pan and getting a satisfying sizzle as a result. She went back and forth for several seconds, flipping, setting aside, starting over again. It was mesmerizing how she did it with such ease. She set down her last pancake onto a perfect stack and did with same with the bacon, then drying off the grease with a paper towel. Unexpectedly she turned around, finally noticing my presence. She must've thought I wasn't there because of the sudden jump and a quiet yelp. Her frightened reaction gave me a slight scare as well. She put her hand on her chest, perhaps trying to calm her heart. By the looks of it, she might have a heart attack at any moment. She was an older woman with dark red hair, obviously dyed, wrinkles that aged her face quite a bit, and one blue eye.