Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
EVILS OF THE night come to find home in Caroline's throat the moment the sun dips below the horizon. Sasha was right when she said that writing keeps the demons at bay, but so does the sunlight; without it, she's defenseless against the ones wishing chaos upon her.
They come in the form of ghosts, masked with faces of her parents—of herself. Now, they're followed closely by a ghost that resembles an older Lilac and a blonde haired, blue eyed beast. And once they've tangled themselves in her veins, they refuse to leave.
(Even when the sun rises, they never truly go. . .they disguise themselves as invisible, hidden in the dark recesses of her mind. . .)
Thinking only sharpens their presence, as if they thrive off of opened nostalgia. Thus, Caroline finds herself slipping past her bedroom door and into the cool hall beyond. The Manor changes itself at night. The broad, arched windows look larger, perhaps, like a gaping mouth waiting to swallow her whole.
The shag carpeting is dusted in moonlight, highlighting every conspicuous stain and then some. (Caroline tries to ignore the fact that the chandeliers look a lot like spiders). So caught up was she in the architecture that Caroline barely realized where her feet were taking her.
Passing closed doors become monotonous. The spider chandeliers threaten to drop from their webs and onto her head. Framed paintings follow her every move down the hallway, and Caroline begins to wonder, 'am I haunting this place, or is this place haunting me?' It isn't until she comes across an ajar door that the suffocating pressure of the dark finally lifts.
Music poured through the crack, delicate and bubbly. It was the same type of music playing when she first woke up here in the Manor—a French number with an airy orchestra. Rare is it that Caroline can feel music instead of just hearing it. This is one of those rare moments.
It's the kind of music that swirls up inside of your belly, warm and silly. It forces you to close your eyes, sway to the beat until you're not sure where you end and it begins.
Caroline steps closer to the door.
"What part of 'get some rest' don't you understand?" Sasha's voice pours from the room. Caroline gives a start, drawing her hand back from the doorknob with unsureness. It's only when Sasha comes to the door, no longer disembodied from her voice, does Caroline relax. "Come in, Blossom, geez."
There's a number of things that catch one's attention upon entering Sasha Greene's room. For starters, there's a strange haze collecting overhead that smells of cigarette smoke and incense; A collection of razor sharp throwing knives take up a small nook near a desk (which is, of course, swamped in books).
Three walls are the standard black, while a fourth one is half-finished in red paint. The cat hair is immense. (As is the number of bookshelves overflowing with fiction novels). And a lone figure sleeps in the messy bed, covered in Sasha's rather ugly, yellow knitted blankets.
