I always tremble when things go bump in the attic.
Forever scared like a lost child, one who struggles to recall why she should run from the unknown, only that she must.
The ghosts that haunt these halls once more roam free, the locks on their doors falling to the ground one by one.
The quiet leaves too much room for their whispers to creep into my ears, growing louder as they approach.
Words of doubt and hatred and reminders of all the burns that litter my skin—their shapes disgustingly familiar and I have to stop myself from tracing their prints.
In the sunlight I sometimes forget that I'm burning alive. It's like the gentle rays and their false promises of hope can distract me from the pain if only for a while.
It's not until the darkness blankets me that I see the glowing embers, the marred parts of my flesh that will forever serve as reminders that the world doesn't care how kind you are—how hard you love, it doesn't owe it to you in return.
The pain used to be unbearable, so much so I thought I'd die—I wanted to; I tried.
I think I screamed so long, so loud that I eventually became mute. I soon couldn't associate myself with this body, becoming numb the longer it persisted. I suddenly couldn't remember how to speak of the demons, forgot their twisted faces and which burn happened when. Why and who was at fault?
They say it was me. I can't remember, so maybe they're right.
My mind broke, fell in fragmented pieces.
I held them tight, uncaring of how their jagged edges cut into my skin—what was another scar? At least I understood this pain.
I mindlessly placed the blood stained shards on a shelf in the attic, knowing that hidden away was the only way they couldn't hurt me anymore.
I believed that.
So, there they remain, only to haunt me when the demons are summoned by name, delighted to be remembered—their burning gaze locked on their target, their violent hands reaching out of the dark—holding me in their grasp with a false love. The stolen fragments in their hands cut into my numb frame, breaking the spell to force me to stare hopelessly at the still raging fires that threaten to consume me.
I scream for it to stop—I scream for someone to help, but no one hears.

I always tremble when things go bump in the attic.