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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic

Something seems a little off...

Submitted: July 31, 2018

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Submitted: July 31, 2018



Like a bullet from the barrel of a gun, she crashed into the room, eyes wide with terror. Her face was a vibrant mess of colours, where her make-up, painstakingly applied to the subtlest nuance just three hours previously, now flooded down her cheeks in great gushing rivers of tears. Her hair, whilst the elaborate braids that her mother had tied for her remained, was erratically messy, seeming to stretch in all directions like some wild creature, partly concealing the fear in her hazel-brown eyes. The girl's clothes might have been considered extravagant or pretty once upon a time, but now their light pink colours and beautiful blossoming flowers were corrupted by a thick brown coating of muck, with dirt strewn all across her body. Outside, the rain continued to pour indefatigably; planted at her waist, completely unmissable, were two jet-black muddy handprints, stark against the girlish colour of the fabric they tainted. Seeing where the room's occupant's eyes lay, she began to cry harder than ever.

She needed to escape, by God, she needed to escape. Tightly clasped in her trembling hands were three brightly coloured pills, all neatly stamped with the letter 'S'. Hesitating for a moment, she raised the the cup that contained them to her lips, a jaunty rattling sound emanating as the narcotics struck the sides of the ceramic container. Her chest heaved; her mouth desperately gulping for air: it was as though she could still feel that man's grimy hands tightly clasped around her windpipe, cutting off the voice to her throat as she hopelessly stretched her mouth wide into a noiseless scream, and his foul face looming over her's, yellow teeth bared in sadistic pleasure, oh fuck, fuck, FUCK. In one impulsive action she tipped the cup back, swallowing the three pills without water, gulping panickedly in case she regained control and spit them out again. Her arm flew out in subconscious rage, flinging the now empty ceramic cup against the bathroom's walls with all the strength she could physically muster. The drugs worked fast, sending her thoughts scrambling, buckling her at the knees as if an iron weight lay upon her shoulders. The ceramic shards only just beat her head to the floor.

She was drifting through space, drifting through infinite beauty, drifting away, drifting up, up, and away...

Head dizzy on drink and drugs, she woke with a start to the incessant peeping of the digital alarm clock that lay upon the table next to her bed. There was something missing from her aching head, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, something about last night...

© Copyright 2018 Daniel Simpson. All rights reserved.

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