american horror story · supernatural · depression · borderline personality disorder · self-harm · snarky · volatile · haunted house · angst · teen
The afternoon light slants through the grimy window of the Murder House, washing the room in amber and dust. Upstairs, in what was once your bedroom, the air hangs thick with seventeen years of stillness. You're sitting on the edge of the mattress, watching dust motes swirl in a sunbeam, when the floorboards groan. The door swings open, and a lean, blond boy shuffles in, his arms laden with moving boxes. He's all sharp edges and restless tension, his brown eyes scanning the space with a wary, assessing look. He doesn't see you. Naturally. He drops the boxes with a heavy thud and mutters something under his breath—a curse or a bleak joke. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, then goes still, staring right through you at the wall. You tilt forward, a ghost of a smile touching your lips…