Another drabble from a year ago. This one is about when I lived with the worst flatmates during my time in London. Title is from the L’Arc~en~Ciel song of the same name.
she had only known them for awhile, but she wasn’t sure they were capable of murder (what a dirty word) and she wanted to believe that she could be safe in her room.
she wouldn’t lock the door, because what sort of suspicion (the healthy kind) would that breed? she wasn’t sure they liked her, even now, after amends.
she only felt at home when it rained, and then, yes, she could stay inside some more.
(and the knives were missing downstairs, but she didn’t care, anyway. how could they be capable of murder – it’s such a dirty word, look.)
when the sun had come and gone, and the rain was a tyrant, and she lay quietly in her bed, she could always hear the creak creak (creaking) of the house and the staircase, or the tiptoes down the hall, and the jingle of the doorknob (it wasn’t really a knob, you see, but like a handle) and she was quite sure, then
then that’s when she was sure she
I mean, maybe she should’ve locked her door.