There are twelve of us.I counted thirteen once, but no one talks about that.
And still, every year, she gets pregnant again. No one really knows who's oldest. We just follow the one who yells the loudest, because that's how we survive in this house.It decides chores,punishments,
I tried hiding in the laundry machine once,best nap I ever had.Mom says we're a blessing and dad says we're a tax bracket.
Our house has three bedrooms and one of them is just mattresses and screaming.
I whisper secrets to the goldfish,he listens. He's dead.
At night, I hear crying from the attic. No one lives in the attic.
Mom prays every morning, loud enough for the ghosts to hear. Dad swears at the ceiling, like something up there owes him money. My sister says there's a reason the mirrors are covered after sunset. No one believes her—except the mirror.
We live at the end of a long dirt road, where the mailman stops pretending to care. Our house leans like it's tired of standing. The roof whistles when the wind's right, and sometimes the walls hum back.