A lot of people are scared of goths. They're wary of them, move to the other side of he street just to avoid them with their striking dark clothes and overwhelming personalities. Those people are stupid, evading the real truth. It's not the goths they should be scared of.
Something worse.
Something far, far worse.
The sirens.


2. Andaria Montgomery Mort

Once upon a time there was a girl. She had crystal blue eyes and long fair hair and a singing voice sweeter than any heard before. Her parents and brother loved her dearly, her friends, neighbours and even strangers almost as much. A real fairy tale princess, right? 


That was until the day her mother died, disappeared without a trace left on the earth, not a goodbye to her only daughter. And that's how the princess turned into the witch.

In case you're wondering, the witch is me. 

Andaria Mort.

This is not my story.

I am just the teller. 


I drag the eyeliner over my pale eyelid, the stroke perfectly straight and transforming the colour of my eyes from an average blue to a beaming sapphire. Only, sapphire still reminds me too much of the past and it is with relief that I slip the red coloured contact lenses in place. And then that it -  I'm done; inky hair straightened, lips dyed a deep purple and dressed from head to toe in darkness. Pure, tangible darkness.

I wonder what Mum would've thought. Probably more than Dad, who I don't even think has a brain any longer, but then again, would they have been good thoughts? Dad doesn't have time to think, not when there's alcohol to be had. If it were possible, I swear on my life that I would kill him. Stab him in the heart and never regret a single movement. 

My polished leather boots clomp down the stairs and I hope that my brother isn't woken by the noise. At the moment, he wouldn't wake even if I stomped on his head, so I think I'm safe. 

Breakfast is a meagre snack of burnt toast and no butter. At least it's black. Unfortunately, my throat is raw from the harsh crumbs, so I don't know if my singing will be up to scratch. 

Up to 'scratch'...

Singing is everything I have in this deserted life I live. It's all I am and it's all I'll ever be. When I hear the notes stream from within me, I come alive, my every sense tingling and awakened. For what seems like the first time in years. If someone comes into the room whilst I'm practising, I don't bother stop. Why should I, anyway? Why should I be like everyone else and shut my mouth before they can appreciate the only talent I have? 

The rest of my life is dull, boring, a sludge, a morgue. I look for ghosts, search for reminders of my mother in forgotten houses she never came into contact with anyway. I'm labeled as crazy, the delusional singing girl. I'm blamed for her death - "Don't go near that one there, she's a goth, a freak, watch out or she'll kill you like she murdered her mum!"

I laugh out loud, a dry sort of croak into the musty thick air. 

The world should be frightened.

I storm towards the front door and stride through it, my hair billowing out behind me. 

It's not their fault they're afraid.

They have a right to be.

i'm Andaria Montgomery Mort.

i am who I am. 




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