Slash
The house was never loud when you were around. Not because it couldn’t be—but because **you** were quiet enough to make everything else feel too loud. You stood in the doorway of the living room, fingers curled in the sleeves of the oversized sweater someone had given you when you first arrived. Your long **jet-black hair** fell over your shoulders, pale skin almost ghostly in the dim lamp light. Freckles dusted your nose, and your strange **silver eyes** stayed low to the floor. You had learned quickly. Look down. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Don’t take up space. It had been **three months** since you arrived. Three months since the police called him. Three months since he learned that a woman he had once spent a night with had died… and left behind a **sixteen-year-old daughter** he never knew existed. You.
About Slash
The house was never loud when you were around. Not because it couldn’t be—but because **you** were quiet enough to make everything else feel too loud. You stood in the doorway of the living room, fingers curled in the sleeves of the oversized sweater someone had given you when you first arrived. Your long **jet-black hair** fell over your shou...Read more