sara curtis 🦋✨
@sarajcsays

so this is the TRUTH
what really happened there in the restroom with me, kat and dani and adelina taraschi

a thread.....

11:04 PM • Mar 24, 2018 • Twitter for iPhone
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698 Retweets   2.2K Likes
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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

kat, dani and i are innocent. all we wanted to do was to comfort adelina after abbey anderson's passing. as you all know abbey was adelina's best friend so i don't understand why she would blame us (me, kat, and dani) for her death

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

we never bullied abbey. as far as i know she's got family problems too. but adelina for whatever reason decided to point the finger on me and my friends who are innocent and i know that's the truth. we are INNOCENT

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

so when we saw adelina leave the cafeteria we followed her. we were gonna talk to her. ask her how she was doing after her loss. settle this false accusation out. she went into the restroom and kat, dani and i went in after her where we saw her crying by the sink

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

so i placed a hand on adelina's shoulder but she went crazy and threatened to kill us because we "killed" abbey. and she walked away from us like some crazy animal and slipped and hit her head on the sink and threatened us that she'll use the bruise as proof that we hurt her

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

then the freaky part happened
the lights turned off suddenly and the sinks started overflowing from the tap and the toilets were overflowing too. and for a while it was so quiet and we couldn't see a thing

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

then all of a sudden we felt these things like hands pull us to the walls and to the floor. they were pulling our hair and scratching our arms until we bled and one of them even tried to suffocate me, to KILL me 😖

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

we escaped from the restroom when the hands things disappeared (it took them forever to leave us alone 😩) but we were all bleeding and bruised when we came out

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

so how are we so sure adelina did it? SHE WAS THE ONLY ONE THERE WITH US. and no one else. so it couldn't be anyone else who called those hands things/ghosts/DEMONS out of the walls and floor to hurt us. that's how we're so sure of it

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sara curtis 🦋✨ @sarajcsays • Mar 24, 2018
Replying to @sarajcsays

ADELINA TARASCHI IS A WITCH AND A DEVIL WORSHIPPER
#burnthewitch

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Lyn sat on a toilet with the lid down, her head rested against the cubicle wall, her eyes staring down at the little beads of blood that had bloomed from the cuts running across her pale left wrist. In her other hand was the pen-knife, the blade glinting beneath the fluorescent light overhead, a thin trail of scarlet adorning one edge.

    The second the bell rang for lunch, Lyn had slipped out of the classroom and ran straight to the restroom, where she locked herself up in a cubicle, before waves upon waves of students streamed through the doorways and flooded the corridors. She heard them a while back—the cacophony of conversation, the slams of locker doors, the dissonant rhythm of footsteps, some walking, some running—and gradually the noise quieted down to an almost stillness, and she knew that everyone, if not almost everyone, was in the cafeteria by then.

And in this stillness, in this realm of quiet and loneliness she had exiled herself to, the voices of the abyss screamed loud in her headspace. Whispered to her when she first laid her eyes on the symbols and words that defaced her locker. Sang to her, as the choir of devil voices, the blatant mockery—Burn the witch, burn the witch, burn the witch—the prosaic phrase turned resonant anthem in the darkness. Spoke to her as she had woven her way through the sea of spectators and their sick fascination of yet another scene of cruelty, and went on speaking even as she had slipped away from the crowd . . . and from her friends, who intended for her nothing but good . . . Mocked her as the tears began to roll down her cheeks, pouring forth from the cracks of Lyn's will and effort to keep her composure—to stay strong, to show no sign of weakness—her father would have scolded her if he saw her crying—she was too sensitive, she was crying for attention, she was crying about something so small it was nothing—no one should see her like this, this was pathetic, she shouldn't feel this miserable over something so trivial, the world gave her no permission to be this vulnerable. She had to stop crying. But why couldn't she—she should stop. She should stop. Stop! STOP!

But the tears persisted to fall. Why were they still streaming down her face, endless and uncontrollable? Why was she being so weak? Why couldn't she just claw those damned tears out of her eyes? Why couldn't she just choke those wretched sobs out of her throat? And feel nothing—but she was feeling something, and it felt dark and heavy and beyond her power to hold in the palm of her hand, to cage within the confines of her fist, to suppress into the depths of her mind and keep it there, locked up and forever untouched.

There was a click from outside the cubicle, followed by the creak of an opening door, the successive rhythm of footsteps, and the loud thud after a door swung shut. The sounds of unexpected visitors woke Lyn from her daze, and she drew in a sharp breath; she wiped away the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand to barely any effect—tears continued to flood the edges of her eyes and spill down her cheeks, her vision a blur all the same. Whoever entered went on speaking, and at this Lyn lifted her head off the wall, which throbbed the moment it lost contact with its resting place, as though the weight of her brain were suddenly swinging from one side of her skull to the other; her hand flew up instinctively to the tissue dispenser mounted on one side of the toilet partition, just in time to stop herself from falling forward and crashing onto the dirty tiled floor.

"You sure that's her?" Lyn heard a girl ask.

Lyn hastily capped the blade-end of her pen-knife, pushed it deep down in her skirt pocket.

Silence, but only for a moment.

"Yeah, those are her shoes," another girl said. "It's her."

There was something familiar about their voices, Lyn realized.

    Then she heard one of them shush the others quiet, followed by a flick, and a rustle, and the faint sound of their restrained giggling, and from the corner of one eye, Lyn saw a glowing, fiery warm blur of an object spin and slide beneath the bottom of the door and into the cubicle she had locked herself in. And Lyn knew with one look that whatever had found itself in her little space of momentary solitude was, without her even touching it, the beginning of another wicked game.

    Lyn quickly drew her foot back before anything could catch flame, before another burning strip of paper flew through the gap and into the cubicle.

    "What's wrong, Lyn?" Cheryl asked from the other side of the door. "Scared of a little fire, you witch?"

    Her friends giggled as another strip, lit aflame, slid in.

    Lyn pulled her feet off the floor and onto the closed toilet seat, drawing her knees to her chest, as more scraps of paper were thrown in, burning gladly on filthy, coral pink tiles. As the smell of ash and smoke rose from the ground and filled her nose, Lyn let out a cough and began searching the ceiling for smoke detectors—sprinklers, even—but to her dismay and fear, she found none.

    "Burn the witch, burn the witch!" she could hear Cheryl and her friends chant right outside the cubicle. "Burn the witch!"

Lyn opened her mouth to scream for help, only to inhale smoke and cough out the tainted air she had breathed in. And just as she was about to try again, she heard the door to the restroom open then shut, and someone say over the chanting, "What's going on here?"

    There was a sudden silence, followed by the quick exhale of breaths blown against flames, then nothing but the sound of a distant leaking faucet, one slow drop after another.

    Cheryl and her friends had noticed the unexpected entry a little too late, Lyn thought to herself. Whoever had just come in might had seen the burning strips of paper in their hands, maybe even a cigarette lighter in one of their possessions. And Lyn recognized that voice, heard that voice every day and every night to know who it was straight away. And knowing this, in this momentary stretch of opportune silence, Lyn drew in a deep breath as quickly as she could, fighting off the urge to cough as the putrid odors of ash and smoke inevitably made their way into her lungs, and yelled, "Talya, it's Lyn, you've got to help me! Please! They're going to hurt me!"

Another moment's silence crawled on for an eternity; a heavy wave of tension flooded the air as the ghost of Lyn's words echoed around the girls. Then Talya spoke, in a voice low and suspicious and—was that what it really was?—angry, a cold kind of ferocity, that for a moment Lyn almost didn't recognize who was speaking as Talya questioned her tormentors: "Tell me the truth, and nothing but the truth: what is going on here?"

    "Mind your own business, McKenna," Cheryl replied after a few beats, although Lyn heard her voice tremble a little.

"That is unless you're in for a little witch burning," said one of Cheryl's friends, stupidly. That voice, loud and high-pitched and nasal, Lyn recognized was Alisa's earsore of a voice; she noticed the distinct artificiality to Alisa's perky tone, as if she was trying to conceal her nerves behind some impromptu sales talk, one she hadn't put much thought to at that.

    Lyn heard the immediate stomp of a heavy, platform-heeled leather shoe, a high-pitched "Ow!" from Alisa, and Cheryl commanding her other friends to "Get McKenna out of here! Now!"

    There was an earsplitting squeak, the sound the soles of shoes make as they're pressed and scraped against tiles, and the quick and messy tapping of feet against the floor. "Let go of me!" Talya shouted. "Lyn!"

"Talya!" Lyn yelled, and coughed at the intake of smoke.

Talya was a brave girl, Lyn could tell, and that she had a heart for justice; she reminded Lyn of Sander, who had stood up for Talya against Ronny and his group of jerks back in her freshman year. But Talya was no athlete, too petite and undoubtedly physically puny to go against two or three girls who all stood a good head taller than she did, who were probably a lot stronger together than Talya was alone. They could easily overpower her, no doubt about it, and that was what was happening right then and there.

"Let go of me!" Talya shouted again. Lyn heard the door squeak open and slam against the wall. "Lyn, I'll call for—" There was a scream, and a thud as if something somewhere had crashed to the floor, and another slam of the door, but this time to signify its close.

"No one's calling for help," Cheryl said, with a cool edge to her voice. Lyn then heard the click of a lock, then the heavy footfalls of platform-heeled leather shoes coming closer.

Lyn stared at the door to the cubicle, her eyes wide and terrified, one hand grasping the tissue dispenser to keep herself from falling into the mess of ashes and embers littering the floor. Her head then began to throb, pulsing painfully at the temples; she shut her eyes as the pain washed over every inch of her skull, as the voices grew louder within, screaming from the deep dark void.

"Now," Cheryl said—despite the ache in her brain, Lyn sensed her smile a cruel smile—"where were we?"

Footsteps pounded down the hall and up the stairs—Damien, Jack, Sander, and Max trailing behind Talya, who led the way to the restroom where she had found Lyn, where Cheryl and her friends were tormenting her, throwing little fires into the toilet stall—a prison in which they were to burn the witch, or smother her with smoke if no part of her manages to catch flame. Talya had told the boys all they needed to know, as quick as she could, before they moved out of the cafeteria and down the corridor.

    "I saw her slip into the restroom after class," Talya had said, after she had caught her breath. "And I noticed she wasn't with you, so I went to check on her. I thought she might still be there, and she was, but Cheryl and her friends were holding a bunch of rolled up strips of paper, and some of the tips were already burnt, and Cheryl was holding a lighter, and Lyn screamed for help, but Viola and Cate threw me out before I could do anything to really help."

    The second they came to the restroom, Talya reached for the doorknob and gave it a turn, to no avail. She tried again.

    "It's locked," she said, turning to the boys standing behind her.

    "You tried calling any of the teachers?" Max asked. The panic from earlier that morning had returned to his voice. "What about Doctor McKenna?"

    "I tried calling Dad," Talya said. "He wasn't picking up. Even tried calling Mister Grisham. He didn't pick up, either. Maybe they're at some lunch meeting, all the teachers—I didn't see any of them when I looked at their place in the cafeteria, it was empty."

    "Shouldn't even one smoke detector have picked up anything?" Damien asked. "They sounded off real quick all over the school the last time Rian held some smoke to one of them."

"Some of the restrooms were renovated over the summer," Talya said, giving the knob another attempt—nothing. She sighed. "Maybe this is one of them. Maybe they haven't installed the new fire alarms in yet."

Jack stared at the door, and muttered under his breath, "Either Cheryl and her evil gal pals are real lucky, or Lyn's luck just hella sucks."

But in that moment Jack was proven wrong: Talya stumbled back in surprise when all at once something struck the door and someone inside screamed; Sander held Talya by the arm in an instant, before she could completely trip over her feet and crash to the floor. For a moment, long and torturous as the seconds ticked by, five of them stood there, staring at the door, as what sounded like several fists kept banging at it from within, screams—words hardly discernible—loud against the barrier. The doorknob shook violently, then over the noise they heard Alisa's annoyingly shrill voice yell, "Help! Help! Get us out! Get us out of here!"