Ever wondered why the early hours of the morning are so still, so silent, and yet so ... creepy? The Witching Hour isn't just when the bars close; it's an archaic belief that sinister forces emerge between the hours of midnight and 3am, growing heig...
"A girl had disappeared into the heart of the woods only for her carcass to be discovered, hanging from strings, soul spilling from an open mouth. Her ribs poked through her shirt, cheekbones through her skin. The flies feasted on the rotten corruption of beauty gone bad." It was the mirrors. And the flies.But mostly the mirrors.This is not my story to tell, but I'm telling it anyway. Not for me. For them."
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This is not my story to tell.
I don't hold the full picture; only shards are left, and I'm left piecing together slips of memory that leak from madness-filled minds.
And I'm not sure I'm taping this the right way, but I've done my best. I came up with a story I'm not sure I want to say.
This is for them, those people who fell from victim to villain as the cycle repeated. That fall from grace was not at all graceful.
A girl disappeared in the night, swallowed by darkness, and she didn't come back out.
It was the mirrors. Well, the mirrors and the flies.
The mirrors and the flies and the pretty people picking at their calorie-stripped food, trying to lose a few pounds that they didn't really have.
They lost their sanity with it.
Maria saw this with an open mind, letting doubt bounce into her head and right back out. She didn't connect the dots. Maybe because she couldn't see them, maybe because she didn't want to.
Maybe because if she did, she'd find herself trapped by the invisible lines she hadn't drawn soon enough, conclusions she hadn't jumped to when she had the chance.
So she continued to live there in ignorance, raising her children in that city of starved souls, and the toxic environment of reflected personalities and doubting thoughts infected their bloodstreams.
Monochromatic days faded into shadow-laced nights, and the witching hour began.
