[completed - under editing]
[last chapter edited - 8 | setting a trap for yourself]
"You're told all your life that you're broken, insane, mentally ill. And then you're told that you are going to repair the world."
᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽᯽
Thirteen...
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Nia
The night is too silent for me. I've spent so much time sleeping on cliffs, against cliff walls, on soft grass, and I've listened to all the sounds nature produces, some more alarming than others. But here I'm sleeping under a roof, which should be quiet enough for me to sleep.
I just can't. It feels wrong — haunted, maybe? Perhaps this wing was empty because it's haunted, and they just stuffed us there.
No, that's not it. Shut up. I spend a few minutes listening to my breaths until I become aware of a creak. My eyes, adjusted to the darkness, catch a shadow behind the door, which is now open a crack.
I open my mouth to ask, who's there? I've watched horror movies. And although it may not be a killer who's behind my door, I'll find out who's there if they come in. No need to ask. I quickly shut my mouth and try not to move. Indeed, the door is inched open a little, as if testing whether I'll notice it. I don't twitch, even though this is odd to me.
The door inches open wider, creak. It stops. It doesn't move, not for a few minutes. I twitch ever so slightly, in a mimicry of sleep.
Now the door opens wide enough for me to see that indeed, what the shadowy figure has clenched in their hand is a long knife, serrated and horrible–looking. I bite my lip. Oh crap is this not good. They take one almost scared step into the room, then another, sticking to the shadows. Their silhouette is still very easy for me to make out.
Do I scream? What if the others are drugged? Or dead already. No, Nia. I try to be rational. Leilani would scream the wing down, and there's no way any of us have been drugged, we drank barely any water and ate ... I can't remember what we ate, but my stomach is grumbling, so I'm willing to bet it wasn't much.
But if I scream, I won't know what could possibly happen next. They could just lunge for me.
The moonlight casts a harsh glare on the face under a black hood, half of which is obscured by shadow. It's sharp, dangerously so. Hooded dark brown eyes are set high in the face, though possessing almost an innocent, childish gleam in them. I sense danger in those childish eyes though. Scars carve through the part of the face that I can see, pockmarking it like craters in a grisly landscape. I swallow back revulsion and the overwhelming desire to press myself against the wall, as far away from this awful figure as possible.
I'd have assumed the figure was an experienced murderer if not for the scars' peculiarity. They're an even web of scars — almost like threads, holding the face together — no.
The figure creeps ever closer as I feel bile rising in the back of my throat, my hands clammy with sweat. I should scream, but I don't want to. Is it shame? Terror? Maybe a mix of all three.
A piercing shriek stabs the silence. Leilani. Is it an agonized scream? I'm not sure, I can't tell — dimly I'm aware that the figure has stopped, that this is my chance to do something stupidly heroic and pray it works like it does in the movies. I still can't move, though.
