The Daily Grind.

Reads: 399  | Likes: 0  | Shelves: 0  | Comments: 0

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic
Waking up to real life can be terrifying. Written for my creative writing class (we were limited to two pages).

Submitted: October 28, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: October 28, 2014

A A A

A A A


The Daily Grind

The walls of my old house moan and the floors from above me scream as if they are fearful of something. My stomach is occupied by a spawn of Satan that is trying to free itself from being consumed by the acid in my stomach. That’s the problem with being paranoid and living in a basement. You see shadows of people who aren’t there, voices and footsteps that have no real place of origin. Growing more uncomfortable, I make my way upstairs. The stairs squeal in pain as I step on them. When I get to the top, the door is locked. The pipes of the house began to pop and growl and the fear began to worsen in my head. My mind begins racing with images of myself laying on the ground with fragments of my decimated skull strewn across the wood floor of my basement in puddles of thick coagulated blood, the slit throat of my girlfriend and the pain it would cause my family and friends.

My chest starts expanding and contracting until air is difficult to draw in to my lungs. My throat is burning with an icy, shooting pain from the panicked breathing. I run to escape through my window meant for emergencies. When I open it to crawl out from the walls that are closing in, the glow of the sun that was being diffused by gray clouds snapped to freezing night air, illuminated by the pale moonlight. I turn around to run back upstairs and bust my way through the thin door, but when I did my room was no longer my room. The wood floor had turned to dirt covered in dead grass, the furniture now covered wagons with forgotten souls in them and tattered covers and the scent that I had grown accustomed to was replaced by the smell of diseased rotting women and children and the popcorn ceilings were replaced by the night sky.

I could hear the faint cries of children. Women screaming pleas for something to not hurt their children. These are all memories of the corpses that are crying out from their stiff bodies. The hard yellow grass crunches underneath my feet and is whispering something to me, but I cannot hear it. I put my ear to it so I can understand. When I reach the grass I inadvertently peer underneath one of the wagons and as the grass repetitively whispers in a raspy, old, tired voice “Why me?” I see an old woman with her torn bonnet laying beside her face which is hanging from her bloody muscle and tendons and is torn in to shreds of pasty, soggy skin and blood is slowly pouring out of the barren eye sockets in her skull.

I get up and start running. I don’t get far when I see a woman standing with the head of a decapitated man who is still attempting to scream; but no sound is emitted from his mouth, just a mist of blood and meat. The woman, who’s clutching the hair of this man’s head with her boney translucent fingers, is standing hunched with her head tilted down, blood and dirt covering her ripped white dress. She tilts her head up, saying in a slow, floor board creak sounding screech “Why have you done this? Look what you have done” the slow screech turns in to a loud shriek while she violently shakes the man’s head at me. She continues to scream this at me while her hollow white eyes keep me frozen. Her dry skin is cracked and bleeding and a section of her bonnet is blown out with part of her brain showing the maggots that are feasting on it. She comes at me with the man’s head still in her hand. Her eyes keep me in place and I can hear the maggots wriggling through the liquid of her squishy, bloody brain. Her hand grips my shoulder and I feel death’s sweet embrace…

 

I wake up in my studio apartment to the sound of my phone’s alarm going off for work as it vibrates in my pocket. On my kitchen table there is a puddle of drool, half empty bottle of whiskey and a pistol in my hand. I had fallen asleep on the table the night before. Maybe tonight I’ll actually go through with it. 


© Copyright 2020 The Reluctant Giant. All rights reserved.

  • Facebook
  • Twitter
  • Reddit
  • Pinterest
  • Invite

Add Your Comments: