Sofia's Bedroom

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
There's something strange happening in Sofia's bedroom.

Submitted: March 27, 2016

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Submitted: March 27, 2016



I saw her silhouette across the warm glow of the lamp for half a second as she got down into bed, beside me. The matress creaked as she settled into it, and I thought to myself that she really should get a new one. She lay for a while in the dim light and I listened to her fingers against the pages of her most recent novel, a Stephen King again, as her breathing began to slow. She coughed. 
"You should stop smoking, you know," I itched to say to her, the words dancing on the tip of my tongue. I stayed quiet. We didn't speak.
After a few minutes, I heard the book thud on the floorboards; she must have been tired today. I peered at her, my heart hammering so violently that it could have woken her up. She was facing me tonight, a pleasant change, and I got lost in her face as she slept. Her rosy, parted lips, slightly chapped; her thick lashes shut and hiding her dark doe eyes; her auburn hair framing her smooth, tanned face.

I ached during the daytimes when we went our seperate ways, and I was always upstairs way before her in the evenings, settling down while she bustled about below. When she returned from work that evening, she sat downstairs for a long time, and I heard her favourite sitcom ringing through the house, encouraged by her chiming laughter. She finally came upstairs, and after a few painful minutes the shower spluttered on a few rooms away, and her muffled singing flooded my heart. I let my brain wander over her curves, imagining the water droplets bouncing off her skin, her limbs stretching out, soapy hands in red hair and legs pinkened with the heat of the water. I didn't even let myself think about joining her; The concept was so out of reach, so unrealistic. The shower thumped off and, a few minutes later, she padded into the room, barefoot, towel-drying her hair. For a few moments her eyes lingered on me, and my heart soared uncontrollably. She sighed and turned away. 

It was a hot night, and in the early hours she sleepily kicked off the bottom half of her pyjamas, bringing a coppery taste to my mouth. My eyes ate up her freckled skin, and I tingled all over, paralyzed. Why did things have to be the way they were? At least she had a day off tomorrow, meaning she might be in all day. That thought carried me through the painful night of mere observation.

The following morning, she was dancing about the house in her designated 'day off' outfit: grey jogging bottoms and a black vest top, hair in a careless bun, bare toes scrunching into the carpet. She tidied up the bedroom, filling a bag with old clothes to give away, organising her bookshelf, throwing out some old candles and replacing them with new scents. I just watched her. After an hour or so, she looked around, seemingly satisfied with herself. Her eyes flickered around the room, and came to rest. On me. She frowned for a few moments, then emitted the same exasperated sigh as usual, and left the room. I heard her thud downstairs and listened as she pottered about in the kitchen for a number of minutes. She dropped something metal onto the kitchen tiles. 
"Shit," she groaned, frustration in her voice. 
I listened as she left the kitchen and began to climb the stairs, humming to herself. Her mindless tunes grew closer and louder, and after a few seconds I heard that floorboard on the landing creak, just outside the door. My stomach was churning with anticipation for her to return. The bedroom door opened and there she was. 

In one hand she held a filling knife, and in the other, a small tub of filler. She approached me, and I backed away, barely able to breath. She widened up the crack with the knife, each scrape shredding away a piece of my heart, then wiped out the dust with her small fingers. She loaded up the knife with the thick white paste, and then smeared it on, slowly obscuring her world from me. The crack in her wall was filled. I heard a mumble of nonchalant satisfaction.

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