Lovers: Boarding School

cih_lgt

*Jigsaw voice* Let's play a game. If you can unscramble the title of this chapter, I will dedicate this chapter to you. First to answer correctly gets the dedication. Good luck (◎ω◎*)

And enjoy!

For me--> needs more editing

For you--> This is the craziest thing I've written EVER. Also, might be the SCARIEST.

ENJOY! ◎ω◎

When she opened her eyes, she was greeted with the speckled gray ceiling of her RL apartment. The sight that had always welcomed her after a restless, unsatisfying slumber and kept her company on nights she shared her bed with that sad, heavy demon called Depression, was familiar to her and familiarity to her meant she was safe, and being safe meant she was comfortable. And being comfortable meant she was okay.

But staring at the ceiling, with its bumps and crevices made all the more jagged and harsher from the white light radiating from her desk, she felt no such thing. She did not feel safe in this place that was her textbook definition of safe. Nothing about her ceiling, or her room, or the marshmallow soft mattress she was laying on felt like they were hers. They looked the same but they didn't feel the same.

They didn't feel safe.

Instead, she felt like she was in a perpetual state of adrenaline. The nerve endings all over her body felt as if they pulsated and shivered like lit sparklers, her skin the rippling cellophane that meagerly contained their fevered vivacity. When she urged herself to move, she realized in great terror that her mind was disconnected from her body; she felt and heard and sensed things as she should, but her absolute command over her body was detached from the rest of her. Even her eyelids refused to blink and wrest her back into unconsciousness.

Why?

What?

How?

A sound like a fingers drumming on her desk replaced her bone marrow with ice and her rippling skin with snow. She couldn't believe her ears.

Someone was in the room with her.

She looked down her nose, surprised that her eyes could move and surprised even more by what they spotted once they did. As her head was laying on a pillow, her scope of vision had a slight vantage over her rigid body. And what was adorning her body was her purple and black school uniform from the game.

What the--

The creaking of her work chair's swivel immediately drew her eyes from her body to her desk. Almost immediately, the sparklers underneath her cellophane skin burst into fireworks. Sitting in her chair was the shiny, black back of a girl's head. She knew it was a girl's head because she had once saw it in the game, in a dark, neon-splattered warehouse filled to the brim with soulless, vacillating bodies possessed by the throbbing thunder of dance music and sea blue flood lights.  

It was her.

It was her.

As if her notice of the girl had been alerted to, the girl at her desk turned around and showed her face.

And Viol_ was right.

It was Mary.

That's the beauty of a story like this.

You don't know who's the victim and who's the predator.

But she's dead! She killed herself!