Insanity comes in all shapes and sizes, but never in the ones you would expect.

The night sings with hysteria; tottering with the sharp screams of prehistoric bats, with wings that cut through the night like tailors who never sew, only snip, snip, snip away with glimmering fangs and burgundy-handled scissors. It swims, swerves as she breathes it in and tastes it with numb taste buds. Through the window, the light comes like a blue and terrible giant, and the lightning strikes ten miles away, five miles, three, one, and it's right on top of the house!

Shaking, the house roars like a grizzly bear, the growl rumbling through and through, rips the foundations from the grounds. Her heart pounds, her blood pounds, her veins pulse dangerously and the whites of her eyes are illuminated white in the forked light, chilled like moon-stained ice.

Her hands clutch desperately at the sides of her head as she breathes, panic and calm all at once, the screaming in-between, caught and trapped in the fear of her own fear, like Russian dolls, one cupped inside of the other. She hears the window crack, watches in morbid fascination as the crack spreads through the pane; a spider with long, creeping legs that eats the glass. A part of the window falls through; the shards tinkle on the ground like a melody and then lie silent and gleaming like a pair of eyes in the darkness.

The eyes.

She screams and claws away from the glinting eyes, scrunches her eyes shut tight and balls herself in the opposite corner of the room. Her ears ring with her own screams; it turns into a horrible jeering, the shrieking laugh of a traitor. Over and over and over and it won't ever stop.

Crazy! Crazy, crazy, crazy, crazy…

"You think I'm crazy, do you?" she screeches with her eyes still shut and hands clamped over her ears, and even through her shut eyes she can still see the smiling gleam of the glass on the floor. "I—I'll show you what's crazy! And then you won't be laughing any more, won't be smiling anymore, you hear? I'll show you what crazy is! You haven't seen anything yet, nothing compared to it! You won't be laughing anymore!"

She shouts this over the laughing and jeering bouncing around in her head until her throat goes hoarse, but she can't stop screaming –oh, no. And the lightning strikes, sizzles, bright and blinding—washes her eyelids white and red, and in between it all she sees the wary glances of strangers and family and the whole world, the strange looks of twisted pity and derision, of hateful sympathy, if it could ever be called that.

"What are you looking at? What is it, huh? You think it's funny, don't you? Think it's great that we have a crazy person who lives down the street, and we can make fun of her all we want because she'll never notice. Oh no, of course she won't! Because she's stupid and crazy! She'll never find out! Funny, funny, funny, titter titter!" she says this loudly; an eerie wisdom has found its way into her voice, crept like a mouse into a matchbox.

Her eyes are frighteningly wide, almost inhumanely so. Something cracks, and it's not just the glass of the window now.

"Look at her, the crazy lady! Kids, don't go over there; the crazy woman might catch you and eat you for dinner! That's right! If you don't watch out she'll get you! Get you!" she tells herself, adds an extra emphasis to the last part. It's strange because now the bitterness has drained out of the words; it's as if she is reciting the passage of a monologue, loud and clear to a room full of no one, nothing. She is a recorder of Time, a parrot of impeccable memory, spits out what she hears and has heard; each and every word of the long past, the short future. "And we wouldn't want that to happen, now would we? Now would we? Of course not, never, no!"

She rocks as she says this, and her hands are no longer over her ears but clasped around her knees. Her toes wriggle as she rocks.

"Come now, hurry along! Don't get too close. You don't want to end up like her, like her, you see how strange she is? Not good, not good at all."

She shakes her head.

"Such a sad story, isn't it? Poor thing, poor thing. Aren't you dreadfully glad not to be her? Dreadfully, dreadfully glad."

The thunder crackles and sputters, like sparks from a fire.

"I hear she does some terrible things when she's all alone, all alone in that huge house of hers, the thing. Breaks windows and vases and everything! Goodness, they should have someone to watch over her. Who knows what'll happen? Who knows? One of these days, one of these days something bad is going to happen, something horrible. I'm warning you, warning you!" She shakes her head in disapproval at this, clucks to herself like a mother hen reproving her fluffy yellow chicks.

"Something must be done, something! We can't just stand here as she gets crazier and crazier—she just might break one of these days, just might break! Who knows what she'll do then? She might murder the whole town, murder us all! You can never be sure with those kinds of people, can never really be quite certain," she continues, nodding to herself.

"She just might break, just might break one of these days," she hums under her breath.


The next morning they find her dead. Her hands are red and bloody, anda small piece of glass liesperfectly inpalm of her hand,sharp as irony.The whole window is broken through and the piles of eyes glimmer witness as the men carry her body out.

On stormy nights, the house still screams without her.

Um....this is really, really....weird. And sort of creepy. And if you couldn't tell, the girl is indeed insane and talks to herself. Really weird, definitely confusing, doesn't make much sense, but fun to write in a strange way. :D