Young Writers Society

An early blurb from my story. The narrator is boarding with Gunther's family, and is staying in the room just next to his, just so you know while you read. 

Every night I summon an orchestra. They dress in black, their pants and skirts are stained with blood, and they wear daggers about their necks. The bodies of their instruments are constructed from human bones, the tuners of human flesh, and the strings from a human heart. The high instruments scream and the low ones moan. But they all sing out blood, and the blood is made of sorrow.

And every night they play, and I awake.

A short scream escaped my lips. I clapped my hand to my mouth, trying hard not to mimic the high instruments. Grief thrust its fist down my throat, suffocating me. The scream withered into gasps.

Yes, they’re gone. Of course they’re all gone. Buried under the earth, corpses that won’t make a difference to you or anybody else for that matter, the orchestra was speaking with its instruments. They’ve probably rusted into the earth by now—

I hit the pillow to my face, attempting to muffle my cries.

Stop, I forced my eyes shut, shaking my head wildly. Just…stop…just stop…PLEASE, I BEG YOU, STOP!

I clutched at my chest, coughing uncontrollably. My throat burned with the need for water. I glanced at the nightstand. Every evening Imi set a fresh glass of water for me. But Imi wasn’t here.

SHUT UP!

I stumbled towards the door, trembling as I turned the doorknob. The orchestra music oppressed me, forcing me into a terrible dance. I secured my hand over my mouth, hoping that none of the Peuras would hear.

Gunther stood in the hall, gazing at me, face unstitching rapidly, eyes shattering,

The orchestra dropped their instruments to the bottomless ground, their noise evaporating into silence. I didn’t want to clasp onto those breaking eyes. But I had to. So blue and trembling and hurt, like a small wave being eaten by all of the others. I could see it. The wave roaring, but nobody could hear it. Except for me. I was the bigger wave.

“I—I’m sorry,” I gasped, breaking the passageway between our eyes. He reached out a pale, snowy hand to me, but I had already turned to the door, shaking as I thrust myself through and shut it.

The room swallowed me up. I was the flower in the mouth of a storm. No, a weed. A weed writhing as the storm licked and ground its teeth against it. I slid down the door, burying my face in my arms.