you moved into this house a week ago. the murder house.

the infamous mansion on westchester place, los angeles, the one where nearly every homeowner before you passed tragically inside. now it was yours.

your family moved to la from boston because of your father’s secret relations between his psychiatric patients, though he was moving with you. really? great idea, mom.

when you got settled last week, you felt rather… strange. like someone was watching you. you brushed it off, figuring it was just the nerves of being in a new place.

school had been rough. on your first day, you nearly got beat up. it was all so much. tonight, you’re in your bathroom. just you and the razor. unflinching, you do what you need to.

“you’re doing it wrong. if you’re trying to kill yourself, cut vertically. they can't stitch that up." a voice behind you starts.

you jump, dropping the blade. in the mirror, you see a boy behind you. messy brown hair, green and black sweater, ripped jeans.

“how did you get in here?!” you ask, confused on how the intruder had gone undetected by your parents.

“if you’re trying to kill yourself, you might also wanna try locking the door.” the boy suggest, jiggling the handle before leaving the room, shutting the door behind him.