Drabble: [Original Fiction] 'What Happens In The Dark'
No, seriously. I wrote, and it was original fiction. Such is the power of an emo with champagne and vodka in her.
Title: What Happens In The Dark
Rating: PG13, at best
Notes/Nonsense: An honest to god original piece. I actually really like it. And no, I'm not scared of the dark.
A small voice whispers in a corner, words that aren’t meant to be heard by anyone other than the darkness but a well tuned ear picks them up anyway. Shivering- that’s all she is willing to recognize at this present moment as the wind causes foliage to tap-tap-tap at the badly painted fence in the back garden, her own small-feeling arms snaking around her body.
She doesn’t like the dark. She especially doesn’t like the way the ghosts and demons can find their way around the room much more easily in settings that cause every mortal person to stumble and fall.
There is, of course, the part of her that doesn’t mind the dark at all. It’s in the dark that she can hide everything and anything she has ever wanted to. When the lights are dim and the bed covers are around her neck as she sits in a corner, no longer do the secrets she has shared float across her mind and it doesn’t matter any more that sometimes she thinks things that she knows she probably shouldn’t.
The wind howls again, a macabre whistling blowing a dull melody around the room as the letterbox on the front door at the bottom of the stairs rattles. She swallows heavily, pulling the covers tighter around her neck in a protective noose and closes her eyes.
It will go away.
An ornament, an ornate china rabbit from what she can gather, topples over on a shelf, followed by the porcelain puppy next to it. And then, after the walls creak and the wind whistles again, the intricately carved sterling silver trinket box pops open of its own accord. Very suddenly, it’s disturbingly like something is drifting its way around the room, knocking things off shelves and opening mundane objects as it goes.
She is quivering now, unable to help the soft whimper that escapes her as she pulls the duvet completely over her head. She wonders if she imagines this; wonders if the movements in her room that she witnesses every night are, in fact, completely fictitious and a product of some sort of chemical imbalance or desperate need for attention.
The only problem with that theory, she thinks as she carefully slides down her wall and curls into the foetal position, is that she never tells anyone what goes on in the dark.
Title: What Happens In The Dark
Rating: PG13, at best
Notes/Nonsense: An honest to god original piece. I actually really like it. And no, I'm not scared of the dark.
A small voice whispers in a corner, words that aren’t meant to be heard by anyone other than the darkness but a well tuned ear picks them up anyway. Shivering- that’s all she is willing to recognize at this present moment as the wind causes foliage to tap-tap-tap at the badly painted fence in the back garden, her own small-feeling arms snaking around her body.
She doesn’t like the dark. She especially doesn’t like the way the ghosts and demons can find their way around the room much more easily in settings that cause every mortal person to stumble and fall.
There is, of course, the part of her that doesn’t mind the dark at all. It’s in the dark that she can hide everything and anything she has ever wanted to. When the lights are dim and the bed covers are around her neck as she sits in a corner, no longer do the secrets she has shared float across her mind and it doesn’t matter any more that sometimes she thinks things that she knows she probably shouldn’t.
The wind howls again, a macabre whistling blowing a dull melody around the room as the letterbox on the front door at the bottom of the stairs rattles. She swallows heavily, pulling the covers tighter around her neck in a protective noose and closes her eyes.
It will go away.
An ornament, an ornate china rabbit from what she can gather, topples over on a shelf, followed by the porcelain puppy next to it. And then, after the walls creak and the wind whistles again, the intricately carved sterling silver trinket box pops open of its own accord. Very suddenly, it’s disturbingly like something is drifting its way around the room, knocking things off shelves and opening mundane objects as it goes.
She is quivering now, unable to help the soft whimper that escapes her as she pulls the duvet completely over her head. She wonders if she imagines this; wonders if the movements in her room that she witnesses every night are, in fact, completely fictitious and a product of some sort of chemical imbalance or desperate need for attention.
The only problem with that theory, she thinks as she carefully slides down her wall and curls into the foetal position, is that she never tells anyone what goes on in the dark.