A/N: i wrote this in a very unstable mindset and yet this is probably the best thing that i've ever written.
TW: mentions of murder, read at your own risk!
sakura.
Sakura.
SAKURA.
The voices drilled through her head, the nightmare still rumbling in her grotesque image of her parents, dead, the blood seeping into their bed sheets burnt into her memory. It was a sight that she would never forget.
Turning the light off in her room before she left, Sakura's legs carried her swiftly through the hallway,only to pause in front of her parent's bedroom.
Pressing her ear silently against the door, she listened. She breathed a sigh of relief as she memorized the patterns of their light, even breaths as they slept.
Slowly padding back to her room, Sakura placed a hand on her chest as if to slow the erratic beating of her heart. Her parents weren't dead, and they weren't murdered.
Yet still, she grabbed her blanket and pillow and made the tough, leather couch that was in the sitting room right next to her parents room her bed for the rest of the night.
The slow, pressuring ticking of the clock unnerved her. With each tick, her head would swerve to a different direction, as if someone had just stepped on a particular part of the floor that would creak every time.
She and her parents knew where those steps were, and how to avoid them.
.
sakura.
Sakura.
SAKURA.
The voices drilled through her head, the nightmare that had become reality, still rumbling in her mind. The grotesque image of her parents, dead, the blood seeping into their bed sheets burnt into her memory. It was a sight that she would never forget.
Turning the light off in her room before she left, Sakura's legs carried her swiftly through the hallway,only to pause in front of her parent's bedroom.
Pressing her ear silently against the door, she listened. She breathed a sigh of relief as the memorized patterns of their light, even breaths as they slept were gone.
Slowly padding back to her room, Sakura placed a hand on her chest as if to slow the erratic beating of her heart. Her parents were dead, and they were murdered.
Yet still, she grabbed her blanket and pillow and made the tough, leather couch that was in the sitting room right next to her parents room her bed for the rest of the night.
The slow, pressuring ticking of the clock in that same room unnerved her. With each tick, her head would swerve to a different direction, as if someone had just stepped on a particular part of the floor that would creak every time.
She and her parents knew where those steps were, and how to avoid them.
And she used that to her advantage.