Junes: A Narrative Fiction

June had always been the most lionhearted out of all us. The youngest of ten brothers, living life with only a deadbeat father and a penny to her name. It was no surprise that she was the one to lead us through the abandoned home on the hillside. It was hauntingly beautiful, this home. The roof half caved in, moss overtaking the sights of the windows and the breath of the walls. The door was locked, obviously to keep us out; the ruffians.

"No matter," June said, entering instead through a hole in the roof and landing upon the dirt below. Of course she would find another way in. I followed, but did not land so gracefully. My knee burned with a new wound, scarlet staining my shin as it flowed almost elegantly. There was always something pretty about blood and brusing. Perhaps that was why I joined such a gang anyway. I could practically see the bruises already; dark purple and ugly. No matter, I repeated Junes's words in my mind. No matter, no matter. It was a mantra as we explored. Anyone could tell that the walls had been painted in a extravagant shade of magenta, but it was faded and crumbling, instead a barely there hot pink color.
They were creaky, covered in cobwebs, but stable. But I couldn't stand the darkness, the feeling of being watched. My head spun at the pictures of monsters on the walls, the huge red X on the bathroom mirror, spraypainted and vivid. I saw shadows move when I turned, I saw them grin at us and motion for us to follow. June followed, of course. I stayed