Supernatural Disaster
The Siebalt house fell quietest when Brooklyn was at his worst.
Purple static muffled their voices into nothing. Pressing just enough so they'd know it was there, but not yet enough to hurt. Like somebody you want to trust, but can't—caressing your neck.
They'd have tried to leave, but static sprang from the doorknobs, biting—just enough to surprise, so they'd know it was there, but not yet enough to hurt. Same, they found, with the windowpanes and cellar steps.
Under house-arrest and voiceless, but it wasn't so bad. Could have been worse. They'd stare at the walls. Or sometimes Kylie used it as an excuse to get everybody in the same room for a family meal. Mostly they paced. Because after five minutes settled down with a good book or particularly interesting wall, static prodded them up. Static didn't let them rest.
Only Brooklyn was amused. And he'd laugh and fill the silence, because they were incapable of leaving him forever.
Then he'd shock them to sleep, just hard enough so they'd forget, but not yet hard enough to hurt. And he'd laugh and let them make noise, and let the world pretend he wasn't calling the shots.
a/n: BEGA for feather-duster. The purple static is Brooklyn's, but really hers.