The Thorns of my Soul

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

Chapter 3 (v.1)

Submitted: June 13, 2012

Reads: 219

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Submitted: June 13, 2012

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Chapter 3

 

Awaking again for the third time that day (including when I got out of bed), I frantically searched for my watch to see the time for I was in a different place from where I collapsed and the strange surroundings frightened me like a lamb. It was gone, but at least I had regained my energy.

I soothed my mind upon thinking that there must be a rational explanation for all of this, maybe I was dreaming… I was in a building. A building filled with half-empty boxes and shelves… I was in a warehouse! From what I could see and hear, an abandoned warehouse. The rain was still going; I could hear it beating on the windows, still furious to beat down on me – the windows that were blocking them making them even angrier. Wait… how did I actually get here?

I rose and as I was beginning to look around, I left the room. Walking steadily along the corridor, my eyes pounced on the walls, exploring every crevice and giving my mind new, exciting pictures to process. Then…

Cruel, hot breath melted my tense skin. I knew this feeling only too well… A small tear rolled down my now frozen-stiff face, joint with a weak whimper of fear. My mind said run, my heart said turn around – my legs were deaf. A good few minutes passed until I could actually feel invisible spiders of anxiety creeping along my back and neck.

I turned. I cried. There IT was. The girl I saw.

The silhouette. The blur. The line… I definitely wasn’t dreaming.

Her image immediately imprinted on my mind, leaving behind a dripping black tattoo of terror. She looked like a child of seven, but she was no child. Her hair – a mass of oily black cobwebs, intertwining in-between the complicated knots and loops, entangled in itself and caging her head. Blue-grey arms stuck stubbornly out her body, exposing many horrid scars. Scars that looked as if they had been done by a rabid animal; random lines and punctures marking her skin brutally. What may have been a pretty frock once upon a time was now draped around her torso and thighs, exposing even more scars and dirt dripping from the wounds which were never sanitized. Small bugs and grime contaminated her long, sharp and jagged fingernails – some split right down to the finger, leaving blobs of clotted blood slithering up her arms. When I finally managed to move my eyes down her, I came close to vomiting. Her feet were badly damaged by frostbite as she looked like she never had shoes or socks, three of her toes were completely missing, but not by frostbite – they looked as if they had been bitten until they fell off by themselves, and toenails were nowhere to be seen. In filthy addition to this, open wounds were strikingly numerous on her feet, allowing me to see her rotting flesh pouring out of her body, probably in a desperate effort to get away from the repulsive monster to which they belonged, and leaving a small trail of black, foul blood with every step she forced her worn out poor feet to carry her on.

As I studied her body in absolute amazement her image left scars on my eyes, scars like hers – they would never heal. Whilst I did this, her hands slowly raised and lifted her hair from her face. Why? Her eyes – blacker than hell itself, she was the devil’s mother; she had no pupil, no sclera, no shimmer of light. Black. Nothing radiated from those eyes. Except black. Even a cold-blooded murderer has a glimpse of glowing warmth from their eyes. But her, nothing. Just black. She wasn’t human. She just wasn’t. Her head was cocked to one side, as if she were deep in thought and she started to stumble towards me. No more.

Thrusting shoulders, a short gasp for breath and a small scared sob ate away a few seconds before I rushed as fast as I could from the beast I was trying to leave away, away from my body, away from my mind and away from my soul. Alarms panicked with flying red signals through my head, telling me to escape. I ran in circles like a mouse trapped with a broom. No, I was a mouse trapped with a broom. Thunderstorms of shivers sent lightning down my spine and I cried out in panic. My breathing, a sandstorm – brewed very well in the heart of the Sahara desert – was released, and became abrupt, terrified and fast. It seemed that with every step, I lost more and more hope, so I ran faster and faster and faster. Running frantically around the warehouse, I became a frightened rabbit, the one of the flock chosen to be the victim – the victim of the hunt. The hunt, a game, who can murder it first? It, I became an it. I followed my instincts, just like an it, an animal… an it. My eyes did not close once, not even partially. My screams echoed throughout the entire universe, but only I seemed to hear it.

I came to a door.

Locked… Help, please somebody help me, I can’t do this on my own!

Weak thuds of small feet were growing louder behind me… But I was running so fast, for so long, but so short. Again, my mind said run, my heart said turn around, and my legs still persisted to be deaf to their shrieks of panic. Taking a deep breath, I turned round, hesitating ten times a millisecond.

There she was. She was there. Was she there? Yes she was. Asking myself questions now am I?

 

 


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