The room was dim. On the side wall was a single window, were the light from the harsh sun would try to enter but as it did a blanket of darkness wrapped around it before anyone could notice. Spiderweb-like shadows hung and twirled around the room but cut off when they hit the damp black carpet. The carpet would cave in under your feet then spring back up as you stepped. At the end of the room stood black wooden doors. They had cuts and dents in them. The doors were tall but slim. No-one dared to open them so they stayed tightly shut. Then there’s me. Just because I have pits of black for eyes doesn’t mean I can’t see, I can. I can see my ripped up white dressing gown, as it drapes on the stairs when I sit down leaving my skin bare, I can see my ripped up pale flesh all over my body as the red blood drains from the cuts. But the only thing I actually like to see is me honey brown wavy hair I know it sounds silly but it’s the only thing that reminds me of old times. Every day I sit on these old stairs the wood is cold, sometimes I sit here so long I swear the vines rapping around the rotten wood had grown. It’s my own fault this happened, it all started when I met my mother Charlotte.
