Devoid

That’s Delilah. Ever so beautiful, ever so graceful, draped in that stunning black dress that clings to her silhouette elegantly. The sky above is heavy, dark clouds casting a somber shadow. The wind picks up with every passing minute, as if trying to warn others of the impending storm. Delilah is my sweetheart, the love of my life. Right now, a thin veil shrouds her face, concealing her striking features. Oh how I hate watching her cry; she is such a gentle soul. I wonder what will happen to her if I’m not around to care for her. Tears swell in her glassy eyes, so clear they seem like they could shatter rather than splash. And there's my mother. Another gentle soul. That's why she loves Delilah. She sees a younger version of herself in her, always telling me how I should cherish her and never hurt her, because "God doesn’t make people like her anymore." They share a long, sorrowful hug. Both look so shattered, as if the weight of grief could crush them. My beloved to...

Dear Mr. Hitchins, I hope this letter finds you well. I'm writing to you out of a mix of desperation and hope, as strange events have been unfolding in my apartment, and I'm at a loss on how to handle them. I live with my mother, and our routine is simple. She spends her days in the living and dining areas, often with the TV playing in the background while she scrolls through social media or cooks. I'm usually in my room, working late into the night, sometimes indulging in online shopping—a guilty pleasure, I admit. Recently, I bought motion sensor lights to light our way to the bathroom at night. They were supposed to be purely functional, but I found myself quite excited about them. They worked perfectly at first, casting a soft glow at our feet as we walked by. But then, things took a strange turn. One night, while my mother was asleep, the light at the foot of my bed turned on by itself. No bugs, no rats (we've never had them), nothing to trigger it. I w...