sinthree

If ghosts and demons were real she knew where they lived. She knew where they hid and who they hunted on. They were dead and so was she. There was a faint connection leading them both into the same actions. Samantha wasn't dead, though. Or atleast, not in the sense that she should be buried. She was quite alive, even if at times she wished she wasn't.
But, on the inside she felt empty and trampled. She created a world of which she imagined herself. It was a world without pain and lonliness and she lived in it everytime she closed her eyes. The world was disappointing at times, with its looming blue shadows of lost faith and sunlight that gave off a red haze that was clearly fake. There were no ghosts or demons, but angels and faeries and sprites. They danced in the moonlight and fluttered across petals, dining on nothing but the music of the night.
Then she'd wake up or open her eyes and find it was all a dream. Disturbing and crushing, it'd all come down on her and she'd forget to breathe.
Samantha could remember growing up in a small house on the corner of 8th Street, blue and comfortable, surrounded with the perfect picket fence, made to assure everyone that, yes, the perfect life did exist. And her mother and father were happy, even she was. They'd have dinner together as a family, they'd watch movies, they'd go on family outings.
But one day while she was in her room, filled to the ceiling with imaginary friends and stuffed animals, she had been playing infront of her mirror. The mirror was the largest one in the house, draping down the entire wall. She sat on the ground with her new playmate, the little ballerina inside her music box, and recited lines in a sing-song manner, humming to herself the whole time.
Her stubby little fingers pushed the box open and watched the dancing lady spring upright and slowly turn, her music floating out through the room. It was soft and rhythmic, soothing to her. Her small tutu swayed a little and the room was fightfully cold. Suddenly, to the child's dismay, the ballerina toppled to her side on the box, her music halting. The spring that held her up was broken.
Samantha turned her head and looked around the room, wondering who had played a trick on her. She grunted and climbed to her seven year old feet, pushing her blonde hair behind her ears. She placed her hands on her hips and waltzed across her room, immitating the ballerina.
A gust of frozen air brushed over her, chilling her skin down to her marrow.
"Where are you?" she called and turned around in her room, glancing at the mirror, then under her bed.
"Can't you see me?" it hissed past her ears.
"Don't be silly, of course I can't see you if you're hiding."
Something rattled past her curtains, pushing up the fabric quickly, then letting it settle once more.
Sam held her breath and walked towards the curtains, pushing them aside so that the light flooded through onto the wooden floor. She looked for a moment, realized nothing was there, then moved on to the other curtain, doing the same thing.
She rolled her eyes and glanced around her room again.
"Why'd you hurt my ballerina?" she said, kneeling down next to her bed and pulling up the sheets that hung down, barely touching the ground.
"She was dead anyway, I didn't hurt her, only put her out of her misery."
"She was not dead!"
"So, she was alive?" it said, behind her now.
She whirled around and found nothing there.
"Who are you?"
A set of cool pillows, as slim as her index finger pushed into her cheek, reminding her of the way her mother kissed her when she was about to go to sleep. Except not as comforting and warm.
"Who are you?" she screamed and curled up on the ground next to her poor ballerina. Her voice echoed through the house, which seemed much larger now, than it had a few moments ago. It seemed much darker.
The two white french doors on the other side of the room opened and a woman peered it, her face in a pinched frown.
"Samantha, whats wrong?" she said, walking across the floor and crouching down to her crying child. Her warm hands pushed down her forehead, then cheek and she kissed her head. The little girl moved away from the broken music box and wiped her eyes. Suddenly, the room broke down again, becoming icy and blaring.
"Why did you break your music box?"
"I didn't, Mommie, there's a person in here and he broke it."
Her mother frowned and got up. She walked back out of the room, not uttering a single word.
Thats when she remembered everything changing. Thats when the imaginary friends became more real and hateful, the stuffed animals became too old and their fake fur dulled. Its when her dreams were no longer licked with candy and sweetness, but of monsters and an acid anger that never died down. The person in her room would break everything that played music, so the silence never ended, except when she'd hum. But even her humming was broken and choked now, more sad than pleasant.
Her family no longer ate together. Her father stayed out late at night. Her mother had friends that came over. Friends that would be more than friends and they'd do things in the night that made her cry. She liked the silence more than the noises that she heard. The laughs and delighted gasps.
Samantha died that July. Not in the literal sense, so that she'd be placed underground. But she became a new little girl. One more unfortunate and sad. One more deadly and seductive.
She became Sin.