Tick. Tack. Tic. Tack.
The relentless sound echoed through the silence, a cruel metronome marking the passage of a nightmare that refused to die.
Then, suddenly—shrieking, high-pitched and piercing—cut through the air like a knife. It was followed by a deafening gunshot.
Blood spilled across the cold, cracked floor, pooling in dark, glistening patches. The chaos was overwhelming—a blur of motion, screams, and violence.
A little girl, trembling and broken, was caught in the middle of it all.
Her tiny hands hurriedly wiped at the crimson stains, trembling as if her every nerve was on fire.
She was pushed, dragged, beaten—her cries muffled by the shadows that haunted her.
And just as suddenly, the scene shattered—glass exploding in a shower of glittering shards, scattering across the room like deadly confetti.
The girl flinched, her eyes wide with terror, and then—
She woke up.
Breathing ragged, sweat slicked her face, her chest heaving as if she'd been running. Her eyes darted around the dim, empty room—silent, still.
It was just a nightmare.
Always the same nightmare.
She told herself that, over and over, but the dread lingered like a poison in her veins.
She sat up abruptly, her small body trembling.
The room was cold and hollow—walls stretched far and near, but the emptiness felt almost suffocating, as if the darkness itself was pressing in.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet touching the cold floor.
Clumsy, unsteady, she rose and staggered toward the mirror—her reflection waiting silently in the gloom.
She looked at herself: long, tangled black hair falling wildly around her face, eyes dark and hollow, like endless pits, and a pointed nose that sharpened her features into something almost predatory.
A smirk curled across her lips—sinister, slow, almost mocking.
Then she giggled, a small, chilling sound that echoed strangely in the silent room. It was a giggle that carried no joy—only madness.
Suddenly, a distant shout shattered the quiet. It was sharp, frantic, like a cry from the depths of hell. The walls seemed to tremble with it.
Her smile widened, eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. She whispered to herself, voice trembling but cold.
----
It was one of those mornings where the sky was cloaked in a dull, grayish hue, the clouds heavy and looming, refusing to part for the sun.
The wind swept through the streets with a relentless force, whipping at everything in its path.
It carried a biting chill that made the trees sway violently, their branches cracking and creaking like old bones.
The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and rustling leaves, a reminder that the day was far from bright or cheerful.
In the corner of a small, worn-down café, a girl sat at an old but polished wooden dining table.
The surface, though scratched and marked from years of use, gleamed faintly in the muted light.
She was tall—taller than most girls her age—and her long hair cascaded past her shoulders in tangled waves, half-obscuring her face with a messy bang that fell unevenly over her eyes.
Her expression was blank, distant, as if her mind was elsewhere.
She sat perfectly still in her chair, a half-eaten sandwich resting on her plate. The bread was slightly squished, the filling spilling out unevenly.
A woman, likely the waitress, approached softly, placing a plate of breakfast in front of her and offering a gentle smile.
"Here, eat them all, it's been A while since you visited" the woman said softly, her voice almost drowned by the wind whistling through the open window.
But Morvella—her name echoed faintly in the silent room—continued to sit motionless, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular.
She made no response, no glance, no sign of acknowledgment. The woman hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked away, leaving her alone with her half-eaten meal.
Morvella's hand rested on the table, fingers lightly clutching the sandwich, but she made no move to eat.
The wind outside howled louder, rattling the windows and making the old building creak.
She finished her sandwich slowly, as if the world around her was just noise she could ignore.
Later, she found herself walking down a quiet street, the wind still blowing fiercely.
Her uniform—a simple, slightly oversized blazer with a crisp white shirt underneath, a plaid skirt that fluttered wildly with each gust, and knee-high socks—fluttered and flapped like flags in a storm.
Her hands clutched her bag tightly, knuckles turning white as she struggled to keep her grip.
The wind tugged at her hair and clothes, making her appear almost ghostlike against the swirling chaos of the day.
As she moved along, her eyes caught sight of something unusual—a small, distressed dog trapped in a sewer grate, whimpering and crying out for help.
Its tiny paws scraped desperately at the metal, eyes pleading with innocence and fear.
For a moment, she paused, her brow furrowing beneath the chaos of her hair. The wind tugged harder, forcing her to stumble slightly.
She exhaled heavily, a sense of apathy washing over her.
"That's not my problem," she muttered under her breath, turning her head away. Her voice was flat, almost dismissive.
Suddenly, a voice shouted from behind her, filled with urgency: "Hey, hey, help the dog!"
A man rushed forward, dropping his bag and lunging toward the sewer, trying to pry open the grating to free the trapped animal.
But Morvella, standing still amidst the gusts, felt nothing—no sense of compassion, no urge to intervene.
The wind carried her silence as she watched him struggle, her eyes distant and unfeeling.
The storm raged on around her, indifferent and relentless, just like the morning itself.
Soon, Morvella arrived at school, her footsteps echoing softly on the tiled hallway.
The corridors were bustling with students, their chatter and laughter filling the air with a chaotic hum.
Her eyes darted from one classroom door to another, scanning for a familiar face or a quiet corner where she could disappear.
But she knew well enough—no matter where she looked—eyes were already on her.
Her head was bowed low, her long hair hanging like a curtain, shielding her face from the sharp, scrutinizing glances.
The whispers and snickers followed her like a shadow.
"Hehe, here is the ugly goth," a sneering voice echoed down the hall, loud enough to make some students turn and snicker.
The voice belonged to a girl with a cruel smile, her eyes full of mockery.
"It's been a while since I saw her… was she sick of herself?" another voice chimed in, filled with derision.
"Oh, just look at her," a third voice muttered, louder now, as if daring others to agree.
Morvella's shoulders tensed, but she didn't look up.
She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her footsteps steady and deliberate as she made her way toward her locker.
Her face remained expressionless, a mask hiding the sting of their words.
Her hands clenched into fists, her knuckles white with the effort of holding back whatever emotions threatened to surface.
She reached her locker, pulling her books out and hastily shutting it again, as if the metal door itself might shut out the noise and the cruel laughter echoing behind her.