blackcatwitchy

[blackcatwitchy]

It's suffocating. The darkness. I hate it.

It's never dark in my room. Something's always playing--- or on. My tv echoes my favorite shows, the ones I play when I get scared or anxious, or my lamp would be on, whining about my electric bill. I have to have something, anything, just to go to sleep. Static, rain sounds, the vibrations of my parents arguments.

My friends would tease me over it. Snide remarks about how I'm an adult, with the mindset of a child.

They don't understand. They never do.

He comes in the silence. In the dark corners of my room. And when he comes so do they.

And they know everything.

Who you are.

If you're alone.

How many family members are home.

Your worst fears.

If your window is open.

Is it?

You should close it.

They know about that thing behind you.

Don't turn around

[blackcatwitchy]

There's something very wrong

With society today,

The malice that grows

Hasn't shrunk for a day----

And everytime we take a step forward,

Someone takes two steps back,

It just seems we're running

On an empty track,

And our voices don't seem

To ring out,

Our silence is filled

With so many doubts,

Our autonomy is threatened,

We stare at the news,

Helpless flowers

With a dying hue,

And we wonder why no one shouts,

Why no one voices do not ring out,

Why so many men throw accusations

At our supposed sin,

Why our bones feel too tight for our skin,

This world is filled with inky smoke

And all we can do

Is try not to choke,

Our bodies aren't ours alone,

Our rights the government doth owns,

And when we find our rage,

The fire is simply tamed

It seems our anger

Isn't justified

When the sky is painted

With our pain

And we're terrified

Of dying in vain,

So what do we do?

When the world isn't whole,

When the inky air

Is suffocating our bones,

What do we do

When we can't breathe,

And when we can't simply exist

In peace.

Also on Amino, I guess I should say.

Stand up. Speak up.

[blackcatwitchy]

The soul breaks like the

Heart, tittering back and forth,

A broken blue bowl.

[blackcatwitchy]

"You had a choice. Emphasis on the had," Hero sighed, a frown making it's way on their usually happy facade. "You blew it though. Completely fucked it up."

"Now the only choice I have is to come with you quietly or messily, correct?" Villain laughed, spitting out dirt and blood. "Does it really matter? Either way I'm heading to the chopping block!"

"You only have yourself to blame."

No, Villain thought, their smile morphing into something else entirely, I don't. Once, they had been kind. Innocent. A child of two fathers who loved and cared for them---- before they came. Before the tyrant king rose the taxes and forced them to give land and limb. Before their lives were taken for defending their people by the very same soldiers meant to protect. No one had shown a little kid with two younger siblings any compassion--- no kind take outs, food. They got stones though, scars from where pellets met fragile skin. The glares still haunt Villains memory. The way they were nothing without money, power or a family. No one apologize to them for making them this way, why should they apologize? "I'm only giving back what was given to me," Villain said innocently. "I only became what I needed."

"You became a monster."

"Everyone's a monster. I just chose to be the violent kind."

"You chose to be cruel, heartless---"

"I chose to survive," Villain corrected, leaning their head forward. It was difficult to move while being completely binded and held back, but they made do. "I chose to be the reckoning. I chose vengeance."

"Against innocent people?" Hero sounded appalled, but what was Villain suppose to do? They knew Hero had a sliver spoon in their mouth, a green solider who's never had to question their own kin. Who always did what they were told, blind to most corruption (except them, apparently). But, now, Villain supposed they weren't completely blind. Completely green. They had stopped listening to Villain hadn't they? Betrayed them. And Villain wondered when that change really began.

"Against those who sat back and did nothing."

They would be known as the Blood Emperor, a kid who came from the slums and despite loud protests and rebellions from the nobles married the king. The kid who slowly poisoned the nobility gaining total power over the court. The Emperor who massacred the priests, their own spouses, started a war with the north and east factions, and taxed the rich. The Emperor who would later be defeated by their own people. That was their legacy. What they would leave behind in their wake, a path of blood and death.

Before them was Hero, leader of the rebellion. Their enemy and once their most trusted advisor. A person they once considered their best friend. "You made the people miserable, you spent their money on war and blood. You murdered their religion and forbade them from places of worship. Y-"

"And you helped me."

"Helping you suggests that I was on your side. And I..... never was." Villain heard the way their voice falter, the tremble in their swordhand that was always so steady.

"All I hear is that I don't get a kiss for good luck? Perhaps a 'I hope by some witchcraft you survive a beheading' kiss?" Always better to appear unaffected, as if hearing them say that (even if they stuttered) didn't hurt. As if Villain didn't want to reach out and explain, make them understand.

Villain was rewarded with a blush. They turn away. "Take them away now. It's......time." They turn back, eyes dark and hooded. "Make the right choice. Don't force us to get messy."

And they were carried away in binds.

But in Villain's defense they were on their best behavior.

[blackcatwitchy]

I count down the whittled ribs of my years so many, lost -                     bleached faceless in hot noons and the crimson haze of poppies obscured as sleep, I reach into the deep night that wakes itself in solitude: where is an open eye or something to remember         but I                       alone? 

[blackcatwitchy]

"Don't hurt her, please," Hero begged, fighting against their bonds. It was times like this that they wished they were stronger, smarter--- and that Villain wasn't a genius in every sense of the word. It wasn't fair to be their age--- in their 20s--- and not be a burnt out gifted kid with no motivation to destroy the world. Some people had all the talent, Hero supposed. "Hurt me instead. Please, just......just not her."

Villain cocked an eyebrow--- and they had perfect, never needed to be plucked eyebrows--- their smirk crooked, showing a vague dimple in one cheek. "Oh you sweet, sweet thing," they cooed, twirling the knife a little too close to Hero's face, "Do you really think I would rather hurt you? You already have scars, darling. A few more won't break you." They gesture vaguely at their sister's prone body, her skin a sickly pale compared to her usual complexion. "But her? She's innocent. Naive. And, I believe you stated somewhere that she's your only family, correct?"

Hero held their tongue. They were always honest, an open book, even when they knew they shouldn't be. They couldn't help it. Trauma dumping was how they cope, it's what happens when no one listens to you at all. What's the point of being a hero when you're all alone at the top? "You gain nothing by hurting her, please---"

Villain chuckled. It was soft, husky. Hero knew if they weren't such an apathetic selfish asshole, they would be in love with their laugh. Would drown--- yes drown--- in their eyes, in their low voice. Perhaps in another lifetime. "I get to break you. That's what I gain."

"You know what fucking happens when you back someone who has nothing into a corner."

"What will you do, love? Give me a lecture? Monologue your past? Truth is, I will break you. If not now then soon, and when I do I'll prove that every hero is just like me," they leaned forward, forcing Hero's chin up with the tip of their knife. "Villains. No better. No worst. Another unfortunate fuck the world didn't give two shits about."

Hero wanted to lean forward, to bash their slightly crooked nose in. "So you want everyone to suffer for what a selected few did to you? That's it. That's your answer? Kill the innocent to hurt the few. I get it, the world hurt you---"

"You don't get it," Villain hissed, kicking a piece of debris. "Someone like you will never get it."

Bile rose in Hero's throat. They hated the pity act, the woe is me attitude. Hero had suffered too. They had family, a big circus of them. They had abandoned Hero when things got bad, left them on the side of the road half dead and bleeding. Their sister--- half sister--- was the only person who looked for them. She was the only one who reached out. Their only family. The only one they could rely on. "You're not the only one who's ever suffered. It doesn't excuse what you did, the lives you've---"

"All the lives I've ended?" They finished the sentence for them. "I'm hurt, little hero, you've spent years chasing me, when have I ever killed an innocent?" Never. But Hero couldn't take their eyes off their sister, her auburn hair spread out like a halo, her skin clammy and pale. If they didn't kill innocent's then what was this called? How could they justify it?

"Then let my sister go. Please. Please, I'm begging you."

"I like it when you beg. And, love, I never said I was going to kill her." Relief courses through their body, a second to soon. "I'm only going to hurt her. Death would be too quick, too easy. I want you to live with it, little hero. I want you to be constantly reminded of your failure."

"I hate you," Hero hissed, panic spiking through their veins. "I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. And when I get out of these, I'll rip you a part." They almost believed it themselves.

"I can't wait, love. I simply can't wait."

[blackcatwitchy]

"Tell me," the villain whispered, their fingers gripping the cloth against the Hero's wound. "Who did this to you?"

The hero knew they weren't just talking about the stab wound, but the scars too. They lined the Hero's body, wrapping around the torso and connecting at the shoulder blades. Deep, and blotched with red, one of them had reopened. "Which one?" They asked regardless, wincing as the Villain applied more pressure. They weren't quite sure if that was on purpose or not.

"You know damn well I mean all of them."

"Aren't you wondering if you caused some of them?" The hero breathed out, sweat beading on their brow.

The villain laughed without mirth, wiping away the dirt from the wound. "I know I didn't, darling. We might not be on the same side, but I would never hurt you," they paused, frowning. "Not like this."

Minutes ticked by in silence, the villain angled their body closer, cleaning out the wound and flushing it with cold water. It burned and the hero sucked in a sharp breath. "Is this why you left?" They asked, applying Neosporin. "Was this the business you had to attend to?"

"Maybe."

"Who was it? Who did this to you?"

The hero bit their lip. They couldn't tell the Villain, they didn't want to. They had been stupid, naive even, blinded by seething rage. It had burned red hot, especially after that last phone call---- hearing their best friend's voice, panicky, begging. Gods, the begging. They should have known it was a trap, maybe if they had confided in the Villain to begin with it wouldn't have happened. They wouldn't have been stabbed. They wouldn't have been left for dead. But they didn't. They left, like a fool, on their own and had been ambushed.

Anger makes people do stupid things. And it had costed them everything.

"What would you do to them if you knew?" The hero deflected. It hurt to talk, to breathe even, but damn if it didn't take their mind off it.

"Kill them," they hissed, reapplying the dressing. "They almost killed you, if you got here any later---" their voice broke, and the hero didn't miss the tremor in their hands.

When the Hero first arrived, bloodied and battered, begging for the Villain's help the latter was receptive, urging them inside. They were in and out of consciousness for hours. The Villain's voice smoothed them--- though they would never admit it, refusing to give them the satisfaction but god it did. Their hands were gentle and firm, and they smelt of smoke and whiskey--- now's not the time. "But I didn't die!" The hero chuckled. "I'm alive and well and I even got a cool scar out of it. So, win-win?"

"If you don't want me to kill them, then say the word. I'm yours, darling. I'll heed your beck and call," the villain looked at them then, it made the hero flushed. They've never seen such longing, much less been the receiver of it. "But that doesn't mean I won't make it burn. I'll hurt them, darling, but I'll make them live with the hurt."

The hero sucked in a breath, they weren't sure if it was the Villain's doing or the pain. "I did a stupid thing. A really stupid thing. Remember--- Remember when I got that phone call?"

"Yes."

"It was.....it was the Supervillain. They had sidekick! They were torturing them, the screaming, the crying ---- oh God. Oh God, the things I heard-----"

"Calm down darling." The villain was gentle, smoothing back their hair, fingers running down their back in small circles. "It's okay. It's over now, take your time."

The Hero nodded, gasping loudly. God it hurt to breathe and talk, and nod. Everything was sore. Everything hurt. "I wasn't thinking.......my mind went blank. I rushed in----- I know I shouldn't have. I know it. But I did and when I got there, it was a trap. A stupid sloppy trap----"

"Did Supervillain do this?" They hissed.

"No," tears pricked their eyes, again. They didn't want to think about it, didn't want to talk about it. But they had to. The villain had to know. "It was sidekick. It was my best friend."

[blackcatwitchy]

can you guys reblog this and put in the tags at least one song (or more) that makes you cry

[blackcatwitchy]

The sky was a faded orange, matching the withered leaves strewn about them, smoke billowing in the sky like a beacon---- a cry of help. A cry the Hero wasn't so keen to answer.

Not when they were covered in the falling ash, face a mixture of light pink and an angry blotched red. And certainly not when they smelt of meat simmering over a fire. They couldn't, however, ignore the way their stomach turned and dropped, palms clammy from guilt and the sweltering heat. The villain may have caused this, may have sent their army to raid the borders, where the kingdom was weakest and the thick walls that bordered the capital was non-existent, but Hero had led them there. Hero had helped give information in hopes that the Villain would dethrone the very king that set their home ablaze and took the Hero's sister kicking and screaming---- but they hadn't thought about the lives caught in between them and the throne. Didn't think about the consequences war would bring.

Now the fatalities were at the Hero's doorsteps and all they could do was sit back and watch the world burn.

Then the hero was running. And running and running. Feet thumping against burnt grass. Lungs expanding against the solid weight of smoky air. The screams rang louder. Ringing in their ear. Soldiers, a dot of blue and murky gray, reaping down bodies like the grim reaper sowing souls in the fields of hell. Blood painting the streets. Children crying in empty stores for mothers that would never hold them again. It was a nightmare, the Hero thought. A familiar sight that all but haunted their dreams for the past five years.

The screaming. Their mother singing a song--- her voice a tremble. Their sister--- Joy--- being lifted onto a man's shoulder. Their father pleading on hands and knees----

They shook the violent thoughts away, forcing them to grab an arrow. Steady. Steady. Knock the arrow, bent knees, bent elbows, steady breaths. Their hands were shaky, and just like their mother, they sang a quiet song to calm the storm brewing in their belly. Release.

It hit a solider in the side. Too low. He had been dragging a woman by her hair, blood staining her blouse, her face, her undone hair. She screamed and scampered away.

The smoke was thick, causing the hero to cough in their elbow, dark brown eyes watering. They hated the smell of smoke, the feel of a fire nipping at their heels. They preferred the cold, the way the ice burned their nose and lungs and skin.

They released another arrow. This one hit the soldier's shoulder. Better but not fatal. They screamed like a wounded animal, thrashing their head back as if bucking. The next arrow hit in-between the eyes.....they went down with a thump.

The Hero moved between the burnt buildings releasing arrow upon arrow, aim improving with each hit. Still, they didn't see the Villain nor heard their booming voice over the clamber of a city in near ruins. The hero knew they had to attack them at the very least, if they had to die in this new found hell, they would take down another punk with them. And who better than the asshole that caused this shit to begin with?

The hero scampered from their hiding place to an overturned carriage, it reeked of ale and iron. A combination meant for a tavern, not a once pleasant town with a once beautiful market. The hero guessed it was a merchant's caravan, a poor one since there wasn't an ounce of colored silk or brocade, unless the soldiers carted the prized goods away. They glanced over, aiming another arrow at a nearby solider with gold encrusted plates, and scale armor instead of simple chain mail. It hit in the middle of their back. It did not, however, pierce straight through.

"I hate scale armor," The hero muttered, knocking another arrow. Besides that one there was only three left, and no signs of the Villain. "What kind of bugger wanted to afford this assholes more protection? What about the common folk!"

The solider turned around, a general perhaps, by the way she lifted her head. Or at the very least a more sturdy mercenary than common folk.

The hero released the arrow, but she crouched raising her shield. It was wooden and round but still did the trick, blocking their attack.

"Oh fuck me," the hero muttered, dunking out of sight. They heard her footsteps approach, slow but sure like a cat hunting field mice. "Fuck, fuck, fuck-"

"Don't worry about them, Rosaline," a voice, like silk, purred. The hero froze, fingers clutching an arrow. It was heavier than their other ones, a yellow crusted paper wrapped around the shaft. A poison tipped one---- the Hero had made it different so they wouldn't accidentally use it in the hunt.....again. It wasn't good to poison oneself on contaminated meat. Best case scenario you're puking your guts out, worse case--- your body is burned at the funeral pyre.

"I can handle it----"

"No, no," the Villain--- the Hero could recognize that voice anyway---- soothed. "They're mine. Isn't that right, kitten?"

The Hero's heart battered against their rib cage, fingers knocking the arrow faster than a bird. "I think you have it wrong," Their tongue couldn't work right, stumbling over the syllables as if they were a new born calf learning how to walk. "You're mine."

The villain laughed, as if they expected the Hero's betrayal; they wondered if the villain knew this day would end in smoke and ash and a poison tipped arrow aimed at their throat. "I'm honored truly. First you lead me here, to the throne and now......you aim to kill me. I've never been the receiver of so much attention."

Smoke seemed to be accustomed to them, ash hitting everything but their perfectly matted hair. "I didn't......I didn't know you would do this when I first helped you. You promised me peace."

"You can't have peace without war, kitten." They took a step closer. "And you're wrong, I didn't promise you peace. I promised you vengeance."

Then the arrow was released. It missed it's mark.

The war really started then.

[blackcatwitchy]

He doesn't remember his mother. Just the sound of quiet laughter, and the feel of tired arms around his small frame. It's like a phantom pain that he only seems to get when he's in between life and death, and the burn seems so real, so painful that he forgets his present and remembers all the things that haunt him.

The smell of wood smoke, and feel of grass itching his leg.

Pebbles scratching his bare feet.

Brothers and sisters without faces or voices but he just knows that they're throwing something between them. An old worn out hat, a dark washed out beige. Colors were for the rich, royalty.

Running. He doesn't know what he's running from but he's out of breath, lungs straining for air. There's something heavy in his hands, a sack of peaches, fresh and reserved for the king.

Then the memories fade and slip between his fingers, and all he feels is the stinging pain.

He doesn't know how he got there, found slumped over in a field behind a barn right on the outskirts of the village. Barely breathing, bruised and bloodied, hay sticking out of his hair and cuts like two wiggling antennas.

A farmer's daughter found him, all long arms and legs, and wild hair that fanned out like a lion's mane, framing her round face and round eyes. Her lips were thin, an angry line filled with sharp wild teeth, and red cheeks. "What are you doing here?" She had demanded, her voice as loud as her hair. "Are you a thief?" He remained silent, grunting in pain.

Do I look like a thief, he wanted to ask. All beat up, and bleeding. What a wonderful thief I would make.

"Can you not hear?" She asked poking him with the tip of her foot. "Did someone lob off your tongue? Oh, wait---- did you commit treason? Speak ill of the king?" Her thin eyebrows furrowed, face reddening as if she was angry at the mere thought of his alleged criminal record.

He didn't speak. Or, rather, he couldn't. His body felt raw and bruised, skin reddening and bruising from burns he could and couldn't see. He lifted his head, temples aching. He couldn't think straight, much less stand here and listen to her rambling.

"Remain silent and I'll get my pa," she warned.

He wondered if his wounds were invisible, inflicted by some beast that only eats away at the soul, bit by bit, until you were nothing but an empty husk. Maybe that's why the girl ignored them. Oblivious to the blood. She huffed and marched back.

Maybe her Pa could see the pain he was in. Maybe he could help.

He feels the pain again, shooting between his shoulder blades and running down his arms. It felt familiar to him. The farmhouse, the long fields of wheat and corn, and the feel of laying against the hay, the covering shielding it from the sun. For a second he remembers the feel of trying to climb it, bruised legs buckling and hay stabbing the tips of his fingers. The sun had burned a hole into his back, sweat pouring down his forehead, causing his mess of hair to stick to his forehead and neck. A voice scolds him, firm and heavy. Deep.

That's dangerous, boy.

"It's dangerous to lay there boy," a voice, equally as deep as the one in his memories, knocks him out of his stupor. The memory ebbs back, and he forgets what it felt like, how the voice sounded.

He opens his eyes, he hadn't realized he closed them. In front of him stands a giant of a man, his mouth set into a grim line underneath his golden beard sprinkled with gray. His eyes are kind, a dark brown, unlike his daughter's. "My God, Pavia," he shakes his head. "You said he looked like a bloody thief."

"He did- does!" His daughter, Pavia, argued. "Look, he doesn't speak. His clothes are absolutely ragged and he's covered in.....in burns. And is that blood? I bet on all our livestock that he's been branded."

So she could see his wounds, he marveled with morbid humor.

"Boy, can you speak?" The farmer asks.

He opens his mouth, tongue dry and lips cracked. The taste of blood dances on his tongue. He wanted to say hi, to explain that he didn't know how he got here, that he swears he didn't mean to trespass. He didn't remember anything, his brain an assortment of puzzles and riddles where none of the pieces actually fit together. Instead he spit out the blood and whispered, "hurts," his throat scratchy as if he went weeks without water.

"The burns are from being branded, right? They're still new," Pavia urged.

"Hush girl," her father scolded. "What's your name?"

"Villain," he croaked, his tongue getting use to the way words feel. He held onto his name like a raft, the only thing connecting him to a past he did not know.

"I'm......Villain."

[blackcatwitchy]

Once upon a time, they knew each other. Had been friends. Neighbors. Lovers, almost.

There's a lot of almost, aren't there? Almost lovers. Almost something. Almost. Almost. Never enough.

They didn't get it at the time. The reason they were stabbed. The reason why the villain apologized before they got on the field. The reason their arms gripped Hero's back, skin clammy and hands trembling. The reason their eyes were sprinkled with mist when they pulled a part.

The hero figured they were scared--- terrified to lose them. Now it was clear. Clear when their sword pierced their teammates.

Then there's a sword in your back. Sometimes figuratively. A friend sleeping with an ex. Cheating. Lying. And sometimes literally--- unfortunately for the Hero it happened to be the latter.

It's been years since, and now the Hero was staring them in the face. Unspoken words pooled between them. They changed, Hero realized. Their eyes sunken, and haunted, as if everyone they've ever killed lurked just behind. Their nose was slightly crooked now, and they're tall with lanky limbs.

Hero unconsciously touched their chest, the long jagged scar that ran down their back ached. It knew who created it. A constant reminder of Hero's anger.

"I see your alive, unfortunately," Hero greeted, tilting their head to the side.

"I don't want to hurt you," Villain answered back, their beloved Master by their side. She was always there. A shadow lurking, waiting, watching.

The scar ached. Liar. Filthy fucking liar.

"Yes, because the gift you left last time proves that right?"

"I did what I had to Hero. It doesn't mean I enjoyed it."

"Oh, so you didn't laugh? My bad, I didn't know my hearing was that fucking terrible."

Villain sighed. "Step aside. Please"

Once upon a time they were friends. Almosts. Sometimes.

Now they were enemies. Two opposing fractions.

"I can't," Hero replied. "Unlike someone I'm not a useless fucking traitor."

Two people. Yet two different paths.

"Just leave them be, Villain," their Master cooed. "Not everyone can see reason."

War did this to people. Turned brothers against brothers. Friends against friends. Lovers against lovers. They were no exceptions.

"Come at me bitch."

[blackcatwitchy]

There was something so comforting in the feel of their hands flittering over the hero's face. In the way they smelt of cider and debris. In the sobs that ripped through their throat as if they felt the lost in their whole body.

They've never heard the Villain sob like that--- or at all really. Their face was always this cool stoic mask. A witty quip here, a crooked smile there. A put together mess, but the Hero suppose a mess all the same.

The Villain clutched the Hero to their chest, cradling their head so gently, barely, afraid they'll break into a thousand pieces if pressed too close. Their fingers running through tangled hair matted down by blood, and dust, clinging to the Hero's dirt stained cheek. "You're not suppose to die, remember? You're the hero of this story. The one who doesn't die." They didn't say it, but still it hung in the air. I'm the one that's suppose to die. It should be me.

But it wasn't. And in that moment the Villain knew with astounding clarity that they were nothing without the Hero. For years the Hero was all they thought about, every decision with them in mind. What's the fun in destroying the world without them? Who could possibly stop them now? The answer, they knew, was no one.

The world was theirs.

The Villain has never felt so alone.

They kiss the Hero's hairline, tasting death on their tongue. Wouldn't it be amazing if this was a fairy tale and they woke up with true love's kiss? Anger and a desperate sadness thrummed in their bones. How could the world be so cruel? It was a thought the villain had thousands of times. How could the world leave them, an orphan, in the rain. How could the world leave starving children in the streets? And how could the fucking world let them die in the villain's arms?

They wanted to burn the world down in that glorious moment of rage and calm. They wanted to burn the world that has never cared for the hero, the very same that turned their backs on them. Instead they laid them down with one final kiss on their forehead. The hero was with the Gods---- if they even existed---- now. And walked away.

The Villain would live for them.

That was the first step.

The second was to destroy the person who took the hero away, brick by stupid brick---- until they're begging for mercy.

[blackcatwitchy]

Oh, out of all the dumb, idiotic, and chaotic shit Character A has done, this by far was the worst. She almost regretted it, but then again regretting it in the morning was half the fun. It built character. Character A smiled, the list of things needed in hand. "Are you grabbing the salt or am I?"

Character B tossed a glare her way. "You."

"But don't you want control the safety of both of our lives?"

"If I did there would be no we. You're on your own."

Character A laughed, she always laughed even when the joke wasn't funny. It was almost a reflex at this point. Oh, something hurt you? Laugh. Trauma? Laugh. Overthinking at three in the morning? Laugh harder. She grabbed the salt, the lighter (because Character B was right, hand her the things for both of their safety and boom A would be gone), and her candle.

The game was simple, start in A's room, knock twelve times with the final knock exactly on midnight, then roam the house until 3: 30. There were a couple ground rules of course: relight your candle within ten seconds, move rooms, if the temperature drops or if your light flickers, and if you fail to relight your candle, surround yourself in a circle of salt until the allotted time, and the most important rule of all...... don't let him catch you.

Character B sighs, setting her light in the closet. "Why am I doing this again?"

"Because you love me."

B pauses, closing the closet door. "That's debatable, really."

"No it isn't. Come on, admit it, you love me."

"I love coffee. I love tulips. I love art and 3 a.m. poems. I tolerate you."

Character A rolled her eyes. "And why exactly are you here?"

"For three reasons, actually. One, I'm bored. Two, you'll get yourself killed. And three, you paid me twenty bucks." Originally it was forty, but if B forgot that teeny tiny detail, who was A to point it out?

They took a collective breath before knocking twelve times, and when the twelfth knock rung out they swung the door open.

Let the game begin.