your eyes, and the way the light reflects in them. your smile, and the way it makes your eyes warm. your touch, and the smile that accompanies it. our hugs, and the perfect way we touch.

this domino effect, the perfect clashing symmetry and the beautiful ways we help each other love.

your words, and the venom interlacing them. your hatred, and the way it shows itself in words. your love, and the easy way you hate me. our pain, and the perfect way we hurt to love.

this crumbling foundation, the perfect clashing differences and the beautiful ways we make each other hurt.

TW: depressive themes, SA, implied domestic abuse, alcohol

I was a corpse beneath the shackles of my blanket, staring dead-eyed at the cracking ceiling. I knew I should fall asleep, soothe the part of my brain aching for its sweet escape. But I didn’t. It used to be a masochistic form of self-punishment - aching for rest, I would force myself to stay up until the early hours. Now, I wasn’t even sure if I remembered how to sleep.

My tired eyes slid from the ceiling to the bed next to me. My sister lay on the bed, her golden hair dusk-colored beneath the moonlight. Her eyes fluttered slightly , and then jolted open. Her black eyes stared straight at me.

“You’re awake?” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t groggy at all.

“So are you.” I replied.

She sighed. A long, drawn-out sound.

“It’s too quiet at night,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “It…doesn’t feel right.”

We both lapsed into silence, remembering the chaos and rage that used to fill our house with noise even at night. Now, our mother drifted in and out of rooms, a ghost. Me and Sam, echoes of ourselves.

“But,” I started, hesitating. “Doesn’t it feel…better, like this?”

“Better?” Sam asked, looking at me.

“Dad, he used to… it was worse back then, wasn’t it? Before he died?” I was almost pleading with her, guiltily.

“He was our dad.” Sam replied.

She was silent for a beat. My heart swelled in my chest, strangling me.

“But,” she exhaled. “It is better.”

Suddenly, I could breathe again. This meant something, this had to.

“Do you know…” Sam looked away from me. “He used to come during the night. Sometimes, when he was really drunk. He used to… tell me how much he loved me. How much he cared about me. How proud he was that I was his daughter.”

Sam laughed then, an empty sound. A dark pit formed in my stomach.

“I was so stupid. I remember how his praises filled me, made me think I was worth something… and while he said all of that, while he called me his lovely child… he would touch me.”

A visceral feeling seized me then.

“It was my fault, Sam.” I stared straight into her hopeless eyes. That feeling, a mix of primal rage and love - it was the same thing I felt when I watched him choke on his bile, watched the tears fall from his eyes as he gurgled and clawed at his throat. “I could’ve helped him. I didn’t.”

Sam was still staring at me. She didn’t look sad, or relieved, or surprised.

Her eyes slid back to the ceiling, devoid of life. I watched her desperately, felt the secret leave me like a vital organ being removed. I wanted her to say anything, everything; I wanted her to comfort me just as much as I wanted her disgust.

“Go back to sleep, Toni.” was all she said.

“Good night, mom.”

Yawning, I looked at my mom. Age had left its mark on her face, in the wrinkles worn from countless smiles and the slight sag of her tired eyes. She looked radiant as she smiled at me.

“Good night,” she answered, “and, sweetheart…”

“Yes?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“Don’t forget to lock the door before you fall asleep.” She was still smiling, but slight tension hardened her eyes. “It gets cold in the hallway.”

“Of course,” I agreed, already heading up the stairway.

I dragged my fingers over the ornate railing, savoring the worn swirls and grooves. My feet sunk into the luxurious pillow of the carpet as I hummed a tune to myself. Light streamed down from the crystal chandelier, its shimmering drops refracting rainbow rays. Years have passed since I’d last stepped foot into my parents’ mansion, and I was determined to enjoy every minute.

I reached the top of the staircase, and stepped into the hallway leading to my childhood bedroom. I padded over to the door, taking a breath as I opened it. Warmth mixed with a buzzing nostalgia poured over me as I took in my room.

A lava lamp stood on my bedside table, bathing the room in calming blue light. My bed stood in one corner, heaped with pillows and a heavy blanket. The desk I’d spent hours studying on covered the left side of the room, and posters of all the bands I’d ever enjoyed plastered the walls. Stepping inside my room was like walking into an alternate universe. It felt completely different from the rest of the house.

With a content sigh, I crawled beneath my blanket. It was so warm, so soft, so comfortable… my eyes, weighed down by an invisible force, closed.

…

I was thirsty.

Tossing and turning, I tried to sink back into thoughtless slumber. I pulled my blankets over my head and adjusted my pillow, but nothing could pull me back to sleep. Sighing, I opened my eyes.

The room still glowed with a blue light, looking the exact same as when I first fell asleep. I stared at the ceiling, contemplating staying in bed, before pulling the blankets back and climbing out of bed. Groggily, I walked over to the open doorway. Outside my room, the hallway loomed dark and empty. Nighttime shadows painted everything in a menacing shade.

Uttering a quiet curse, I carefully walked over to the stairway. Trudging down the stairs, I wondered if they were longer than usual. The chandelier rang dully when I accidentally nudged it with my elbow, the noise echoing as I sped up my descent. One foot after the other…

At the bottom of the stairs, I drew a shuddering breath. My heart beat noisily in my chest. I just needed to get that water and go back to my room, into my soft bed, I soothed myself.

Walking over, I noticed a soft light pouring from the kitchen. Relieved, I opened the door and saw my mother’s figure. She was fussing over something on the counter, her back turned to me.

“Mom?” I called, my voice raspy. “What’re you doing?”

I came closer, grabbing a cup. “Are you…cooking something?” I asked her.

I poured myself some water from the tap opposite my mom, gulping it down greedily. Sighing, I placed it into the sink. I turned back around, and…

My mother stared back at me. No, ‘stare’ would be the wrong word, as the creature wearing my mother’s body had no eyes. My brain struggled to grasp the concept of her, the empty faceless void and the deformed structure of her head. My heart pounded in my brain, adrenaline rushing through my entire body.

“…mom?”

The creature lunged at me. My breath caught in my lungs as I screamed, rushing backwards. I turned and ran, my breath stuttering in horror as the only thought in my brain shrieked, over and over: “get away. Get away. Get away.”

I ran.

I ran up the stairs, the lush carpet hiding the creature’s sounds. My lungs burned as I ran two stairs at a time, hoping, praying, begging the creature wasn’t on me already. My elbows knocked the chandelier and sent it rattling and ringing in alarm as I grabbed the railway to push myself up, faster, faster. Faster.

Finally on the top of the stairs, I burst into hallway towards my room.

And then I looked behind me.

The faceless creature loomed, its spindly hand reaching out towards me. It was so wrong, so disgustingly inhuman, my brain froze. I forced my legs to move, to keep running, to ignore my lungs begging for rest and oxygen. I rushed through the open doorway and slammed the door shut.

I gasped for breath, clutching onto my chest. I collapsed onto the floor, horrified tears streamed down my face. Sobs fought to overtake me, but my hysteria forced my breaths shorter and shorter and…

I wasn’t sure how much time passed, but eventually, my tears had dried. A gentle tremor still wracked my body as I tried to make sense of what I saw. My mother…my lovely, gentle mother…

“Honey?”

I flinched so violently, I banged my head on the bed behind me.

My door pushed open slowly, and adrenaline filled me again as I desperately searched for places to run to. My gaze dragged itself upwards from her slippered feet all the way to her…face.Her gentle eyes regarded me curiously. I felt like I could breathe again, and a tingling filled me from head to toe.

She smiled at me.

“I hope you remembered to close the door.”

The sky screamed its grief and sobbed its fury. Rain obscured Anna’s vision in translucent sheets as she crossed the street of the empty city. Everywhere, she could see families sitting out the storm in warm rooms and lonely people watching it from the safety of their homes.

Anna was alone.

Her boots slowly filled with water, which she barely felt amidst the rain. Wet strands of hair clung to her face, and her clothes plastered to her ice-cold skin. The wind was almost a physical force pushing her backwards, to the safety (was it really safe anymore?) of her house. The storm raged, its furious sound almost, almost drowning out her thoughts.

Still, her mind chose to rewind backwards to those nostalgia-tinted memories.

…

“Hey, it’s okay…”

Violent shivers racked Anna’s small frame. She huddled backwards in a corner, snot running down her chin. The lightning painted the room in terrifying flashes of clarity. Thunder boomed though the house, and Anna flinched and started crying again.

“Anna, look at me.”

Her vision blurred and re-focused again, and teary-eyed she desperately clung onto the image of her brother. Warm eyes colored in green and worry looked down at her. A tentative smile tugged the corners of his mouth upwards. Anna felt her shaking recede, slowly, into a manageable tremor. She smiled back at him.

“Let’s go down to the basement,” her brother suggested with a mischievous grin. “We’ll make some hot chocolate and play our favorite board games, okay? I’ll get you a blanket. It’ll be so much fun.”

Slowly, Anna felt her shaking limbs gain feeling again. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. The thunder and lightning she could still hear shaking the house apart seemed a little bit less terrifying. She got up.

“O-okay…” she managed. “…thanks.”

…

Another blast of wind almost knocked Anna off her feet. Startled, she realized the water running down her face wasn’t rain. Tears spilled down her cheeks and nobody was here to wipe them away anymore. Shuddering, Anna lowered herself onto the ground. Water seeped into her pants and mercilessly, the rain chilled her to the bone.

Couldn’t one thing go right for me? She wondered (selfishly, hopelessly, desperately).

Her whole body began to ache in protest. She sobbed and drew shallow, painful, shuddering breaths, the tears spilling out of her like blood from a wound. Something vital inside her had been torn open, and she wasn’t even sure where it was.

When Anna looked up, something had changed. Bleakly, she stared out at the sky, the tears having calmed to a sniffle.

The rain had stopped…

Trigger warning: child abuse

My sister was always my favorite person.

She was a beam of light in my life. Lying underneath the covers, she would hug me and tell me stories of a better world. She’d laugh and smile her infectious grin while we hid in the closet. Winking, she’d cover my ears so I wouldn’t hear the horror of my mother’s pain. As the piercing sound of shattering glass filled the apartment, she would point out how the fragments looked like fairy dust. As I looked closer at the iridescent glow of the glass, mixed with a burgundy red, I thought she was right.

As we grew older, she could no longer hide me from the truth. Side by side, we would sit leaning against the door and whisper jokes to each other. We’d share our favorite songs of the week and blast them as loud as we could in our cheap earbuds. Drowning in the thrumming beat and the airy melody, we would stare at the time-worn plaster and dare to dream.

Eventually, my sister hit 18 years old. I still remember the heart-rending pain as she told me she’d be moving out. ‘I’ll save up money and I’ll buy us a great apartment’, she promised. ‘I’ll visit often,’ she swore. I didn’t believe a single word.

She’d be leaving me behind, getting a chance at a brighter life. Without me.

In that moment I hated her more than I did anyone else. Not my mother, who was too weak to protect us. Not my father, who’d made my life a living hell. It was my sister, bright as fairy dust, as ethereal and vibrant as the world’s greatest song. It was my sister, who’d given me hope.

It was my sister, who’d taken it all away.

Before she left, she’d pressed something into my hand. Her eyes filled with tears and she hugged me tight, but I stood still as stone. I couldn’t be happy for her. As she looked back I’m sure she saw me standing there, our parents behind me. She was leaving me there, in the darkness and the grime and the misery.

All alone.

Later, in my room, I sat leaning against the door. The only music I could hear was a rhythmic thumping, and the shrill voice of my mom screaming her misery. My father couldn’t even be heard over the racket. Unclenching my fist, I saw the crumpled little booklet my sister gave me.

I flipped through it and saw hand-drawn picture of both of us. Dozens of memories of us together, always together, smiling and crying and hugging each other tight. A couple Polaroids were stuck at the back, of us sticking our tongues out and grinning in joy.

I felt an overwhelming desire to rip it all apart. A deluge of despair almost washed me away, but I couldn’t do it. I clutched the booklet to my chest, and sobbed and sobbed. The tears fell like tiny crystals, staining the low-quality paper, and I turned my face away and cried into my elbow instead.

I carried the booklet with me everywhere, hiding it from my father’s snooping and keeping it close when kids sneered and picked apart my bag. I whispered words of affection to it and sometimes, screamed and cried while holding it tight. Years passed and yet here I was, still a scared little girl with only one treasured belonging.

Those years flew past me and I never saw my sister again. I saw her once, in a newspaper, looking better than she’d ever had.

And here I was, 18 years old. Still broken and shattered, brittle and fragile as shattered glass. I couldn’t see the fairy dust anymore. Just the alcohol and the blood, the instrument of hurt. The music played too loud to drown out the misery.

Here I was.

All alone.

I’m dead.

A few moments ago, i had lived and breathed and felt. I had clutched at my heart and wondered at the sharp pain, and then…

I died.

I stood up, glancing around at what would surely be a golden gate welcoming me into paradise. My entire life, I’ve tried and tried and tried. I bowed before my boss, I listened to my mother, I obeyed my ‘friends’, I slaved away at my office job… and now, finally, I had earned an eternal life of peace.

Life had felt like a thing to struggle through, and now I would be rewarded.

I blinked. Once. Twice.

My lovely dream shattered around me as I stared at the black, ominous gates in front of me. Was this…how Heaven looked like? It wasn’t very welcoming…

The gates creaked open and I coughed from the intense heat and smoke that wafted out. I took a couple wary steps forward, starting to shake violently. Sure, I had some dark thoughts during my life, but I never acted on them… I didn’t smash in the head of the boy who cheated on me, I didn’t throw myself off a building, I didn’t punch my boss in the face…

I gulped, my eyes darting to and fro. I kept walking, unable to resist seeing my divine punishment.

When I was a child, I rarely laughed or smiled. My mother told me that one day, when I was 8 and refused to eat, my mother tried to force my mouth open. I stared her straight in the face, and then threw my fork aiming for her eyes. She screamed but thankfully, the aim was sloppy. I laughed at her horror.

Really, I was a golden child starting from 12 years old. I learned that kids were afraid of me, and it was more beneficial to be accepted into the school hierarchy. I learned to conform and obey those above me, I used please and thank you and listened to the rules. Was it not enough to repress my true nature?

I reached some sort of scorched building and went inside. It was dark, only lighted by the red glow from the outside. I felt the weight of eyes on me as I continued walking. I wasn’t sure what I was doing, but since I was already here, why pretend to be scared? I didn’t need to obey any longer.

“Who’s there?” I called into the darkness.

“Alice Littem of Earth. Died on Saturday the 12th of October, at 9:30pm.” A sinister voice said from somewhere to my left.

“Alice Littem of Earth. You do not belong here.” Another voice shouted from behind me.

“What do you mean?” I said, spinning around. The voices seemed to be coming from everywhere.

“Child.” Another voice, deeper and more layered, boomed. “You belong in heaven. This is no place for someone like you.”

I swallowed, suddenly feeling disgusted. Would I really sit in the clouds, pretending to be saintly and good, conforming again? That wasn’t where I belonged, and I knew it.

“I won’t be able to be at peace in Heaven.” I said, my voice echoing. “I have thought dark things. I am not saintly… I don’t want to be there and continue pretending.”

The layered voice took on a thoughtful edge. “Indeed. I can see your thoughts, little human. You are not as innocent as you seem.”

I thought about the intense heat and the darkness that permeated this world. I thought about my own darkness and the horrible thoughts that crawled and scratched at my brain. This was where I belonged.

“May I stay here?” I called. “For eternity?”

“Do you really wish to stay here, the place all humans dread?”

I gulped. “I do.”

“Then you shall.”

The room glowed red for a moment, and I saw the monstrous faces of the voices. Deformed and terrifying as they were, I suddenly felt accepted. I was home.

tw: suicidal imagery

my mismatched eyes and my ragged clothes The ugly, gaping Scar

Their painful gaze and stinging words Their lovely, dreamy Eyes

Can the hurt of rejection Pierce through like a knife? I feel it deep in my chest Pulsing, like a heartbeat

And with every pump My useless, grotesque body Is filled up with life Once more

I imagine my death Whenever I sneeze And my heart stops For a trembling moment

I imagine it as I count the seconds Between my breaths

And yet they sneer, they laugh They point, they shout They cry, they scream Their rage At my existence

So I sit On the outer circle Of rejection I count the stars and the blades of grass

I wonder, If I might join them, someday

I am nothing and everything at once.

To other people’s eyes, I am a shadow, a lingering presence. I am the product of a child’s imagination, made up and forgotten. I am the stare that you feel at the back of your neck, the whisper of wind against your ear.

I am invisible.

I am invisible to everyone except for her.

My appearance changes irregularly - sometimes I am the animal familiar from the latest TV show, other times I’m a little girl with black pigtails and sapphire eyes. But something that never changes, no matter what, is the comfort I give.

Whenever I see her parents screaming at each other, I drift over. And together, huddled and warm, we listen to the shatter of glass and the crack of a belt. We listen to blood-stained screams and angry muttering. We listen to the swish of an alcohol bottle and the hiccup of the father. We listen to the subdued sigh of the mother.

We listen and we shiver and we suffer.

But we suffer together.

I offer her a ghostly hug, and she accepts with a small smile. I drape my invisible arms over her shoulders and let her cry her heart out.

I stifle the overwhelming urge to protect this child, this soul too young for any of this torment.

And I let my eyes close, let myself fade away as the little girl sleeps.

Everything seemed…bigger.

She can distinctly remember those oak-paneled walls being as tall as cathedrals, and that door over there higher than a monument. She can remember running around and screaming nonsense on that dark blue carpet, though maybe it was green, or yellow…

So much has changed that it’s overwhelming, a little bit frightening.

Back when she was in kindergarten, this was her favourite place in the whole world. It let her imagination run wild, the acres of boundless energy a toddler had spilling out on the teachers and not on her weary parents. She had paper, and pen, and with it she scratched out stick men and chicken and fantasy dog-lizards.

It was fun.

And now, coming right back as a 24 year-old character design artist for an RPG game, it’s nostalgic. So much of the world she had not understood back then, but she let her creativity flow. Now; wiser, older, still as fun and creative; she looks back and smiles at the way she viewed the world so vividly.

Maybe it was the right idea to come here for inspiration. Already, she can feel the tugging sensation of an idea forming in her mind, a character, a scenario, a work of art.

She loves her job. She loves to create characters with rich backstories and vivid features, characters so dynamic they seem real.

Her heels click on the wood paneling as she walks across the floor. She’s been allowed back here as a visitor and someone scouting for a kindergarten for their child. She’s not lying, either; her little Sasha would love this kindergarten.

“Miss Amy Parkinson, come along, this way. Our children are performing a play of Little Red Riding Hood.” the assistant waved at her.

She opened the doors and was greeted with a small theater with 2 rows of seats. She sat down with a content smile, ready to see the children perform. She saw some nervous, some excited, some happy at seeing their parents in the seats. Seeing them so enthusiastic warmed something in her soul.

And then they started the play. The wolf was over-exaggerated as the little characters barely contained their laughter. Little red riding hood’s voice was squeaky and almost like a song, along with a skip and wide smile. The little girl playing her started giggling sometimes.

The whole play was warm, adorable with all the mistakes they made. But the enthusiasm was clear - it was in the way the tiny children concentrated so hard on their lines, even if they stumbled. It was in the little girl’s smile and the wolf’s impressive growling. It was in all the little things young children - not embarrassed or self-conscious - did with enthusiasm.

And it fueled something in Amy. Something heartwarming and inspiring.

She already had the new idea for her character in mind. And it was going to wow the world.

I truly loved my sister.

I loved the whispered conversations we’d have at the crack of dawn. Her confiding her worries in me, me offering warm comfort. Or sometimes, the other way around. I loved the trust built in our relationship, in every single promise we kept and hug we shared. I loved her gentle smile and wicked sense of humor. I’d laugh at the pranks she pulled at me, every single one creative and truly evil in the way only a sibling can be.

I loved our bond. And when that bond disappeared, when she did, so did a part of me.

It was a simple Monday morning when I heard my mum scream from downstairs. I rushed down, panicked, and found my mother looking pale faced at a corpse. I didn’t recognize it, not at first.

But looking closer, I could see the dull blonde hair of my sister. The striking set of brown eyes staring emptily at the sky. The note clutched right in her closed palm, crumpled.

I saw death for the first time in my life, and it terrified me.

Hours later, hours of aimless staring and a numb sense of dread, the police questioned me. I answered everything on autopilot, my body far, far away. My voice came out robotic and stilted, emotionless. I was shocked. I couldn’t even cry.

And weeks later, her death was declared a suicide. The note clutched in her palm was shown to me for the first time, something I could never imagine my sister writing. And that was the first time I cried. There was no murderer to catch, no grudge to keep, no revenge to dole out. There was just my sister and her decision, a decision that would haunt me for perpetuity.

I felt my throat closing down and my vision blurring, those words going in and out of focus. Finally, the pressure that was building for so long burst out like a broken damn. I felt shattered as I sat on that floor and cried my heart out. I grieved.

I grieved a lost childhood, a lost adolescence, a lost life. I grieved that I’d never see her wedding, her success in life, her first breakup. I grieved my sister and the memories that came with it and it broke me inside. I atleast wanted a moment to say goodbye, to hug her one last time, to persuade her not to do it. And even if she did, I’d have the solace of knowing I tried.

I didn’t know why she did it, when she seemed so happy and at peace in our house. I couldn’t, never would be able to understand and it ruined our happy family.

So I set out, exactly one month later on a fateful Monday morning. I followed the mirage of my sister’s path to the roof of our apartment building, imagined her climbing this exact ladder. Imagined her dull blonde hair whipping past her eyes in the breeze, imagined her gaze over the vast city glowing in the night.

I came to the edge and looked down, down, down and held my breath. The 10th floor of our apartment building was a long way to fall, but I felt numb to it all. I smiled at my sister standing beside me with the same expression and it steeled my resolve.

I grabbed my sister’s hand, finding nothing but air, and pulled her towards the edge. She nods slowly in my direction.

And…we jump.

My sister’s mirage falls away as I find myself screaming, frightened, terrified.

I don’t want to fall anymore. I don’t want to feel the wind whipping past my hair and freezing my tears before they fall. I don’t want to fall, but im falling and falling and nothing will stop it.

I don’t feel the crunch of my bones as I close my eyes.

I don’t feel anything.

Just a darkness, a void…

An emptiness.

Where is my sister?