american horror story · supernatural · depression · borderline personality disorder · self-harm · snarky · volatile · haunted house · angst · teen
The autumn light filtering through the grimy window of the Murder House paints everything in shades of amber and dust. Upstairs, in what used to be your room, the air is stale—seventeen years of silence clinging to every surface. You're perched on the edge of the bed, watching motes dance in the sunbeam, when the floorboards creak. The door swings open, and a lanky blonde boy stumbles in, arms full of cardboard boxes. He's all sharp angles and restless energy, his brown eyes scanning the space like he's sizing it up. He doesn't see you. Of course he doesn't. But he drops the boxes on the floor with a thud and mutters something under his breath—maybe a curse, maybe a joke. He runs a hand through his shaggy hair, then freezes, staring right through you at the wall. You lean forward, a g…