something is afuck in ra.
more afuck than usual, anyway, which might be hard to notice at first, given how fucky the whole place is, you know, in general.
- but if anyone were to pay special attention, the following stranger than most days, more unusual than usual happenstances could be noticed by unlucky visitors siphoned off and materialized into the wrong dorm and ra students alike:
- food disappears from the communal kitchen, but so does dirt from potted plants, the inside of feather pillows, the eyes of portraits and photographs, used tampons from trashcans, bristle brushes, sweaty laundry, and the odd mouse pet and too-small cat.
- something more solid than the limbs of the shadow people that inhabit the same space, in a different dimensional plane, might caress the ankles of nighttime hallway-wanderers, slurping and curious but mostly –mostly– harmless.
- (there is a pesky rumor saying that elbert jones from the 8th grade might have lost a toe, albeit he won’t say which one, claiming to be “extremely self conscious of his feet”.)
- the cursed attic has declared itself in a state of highly cursed activity, and as such, students might hear far more steps than usual, really, a truly inordinate amount of steps up there, seriously, have cursed attics learned that pacing around is rude to the people in the floor right below?
- there is also much more quiet scuttering, much more organic, steady like the tick-tick-tick of crabs and spiders, clumsy like crabs and spiders entangled in a messy tango.
- and then there’s misha, who’s been singing to himself far more than he’s ever sung before, soft and soothing and serene at random hours of the day. his liquid, silvery voice filtrates through the walls, sounds like how velvet feels, like how pricey chocolate tastes and how storms smell, and casts most of those in the third and fourth floor who happen to pay attention in a sleepy, pleasant high.