For as long as she could remember, the arms that rocked her to sleep each night had three elbows and ended in claw-tipped fingers with too many knuckles to be even vaguely human. Not that she knew of course, the arms were the only other living creature she'd ever seen and even then she'd never dared to look up or around or anywhere other than the floor just in case the arms left her too.
For as long as she could remember, her world consisted of her and the arms that held her each night. Sure there were voices in the corners of the rooms, ones that told her she was living a lie and that the truth had teeth that wanted to shred her to itsy bitsy pieces but she'd grown used to their words.
Aside from her little footsteps echoing throughout the empty streets, houses, museums dedicated to the streets and houses and the voices, she was surrounded by silence. Something about the air always made talking feel like a terrible idea, as if breaking the silence would break her solitude in the worst possible way.
Sometimes she's see remnants of former life like warm cigars that were still lightly smoking or shoes tossed hastily into a corner, as if she'd just missed the only other living person there. It could have been the arms - she knew nothing about them other than they possibly cared for her or at least cared enough to rock her to sleep each and every night without fail.
She liked to hope that there was someone else,someone who looked a little more like her but the voices in those rooms where the new things appeared didn't like to talk to her. Sure they'd laugh and snarl as always but they wouldn't even try to taunt her.
It was like they were scared by this other person.
Maybe she should be too.
For as long as she could remember, her world consisted of her and the arms that held her each night. Sure there were voices in the corners of the rooms, ones that told her she was living a lie and that the truth had teeth that wanted to shred her to itsy bitsy pieces but she'd grown used to their words.
Aside from her little footsteps echoing throughout the empty streets, houses, museums dedicated to the streets and houses and the voices, she was surrounded by silence. Something about the air always made talking feel like a terrible idea, as if breaking the silence would break her solitude in the worst possible way.
Sometimes she's see remnants of former life like warm cigars that were still lightly smoking or shoes tossed hastily into a corner, as if she'd just missed the only other living person there. It could have been the arms - she knew nothing about them other than they possibly cared for her or at least cared enough to rock her to sleep each and every night without fail.
She liked to hope that there was someone else,someone who looked a little more like her but the voices in those rooms where the new things appeared didn't like to talk to her. Sure they'd laugh and snarl as always but they wouldn't even try to taunt her.
It was like they were scared by this other person.
Maybe she should be too.
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