SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 64

SO COLD

I was on a train. It was crammed with commuters; students on their way to their early morning classes, headphones around their necks, loudly cursing at each other with playful tones, workers in suits and knee-length dresses with their carry-on bags sat on their laps, and the homeless drunk in a corner, singing tunelessly, head in the clouds, eyes red. There was a smell of coffee in their air and a tinge of sweat and an awful combination of different musky sprays that likely smelled good alone, but together was enough to make me queasy. I felt trapped. The carriage was overcrowded with too many bodies and I didn't have enough room to shift from one foot to the other. In front of me was a giant yellow rucksack on the shoulders of a tall man and beside me was a commuter with his nose buried in a crumpled newspaper and on my left was someone's right shoulder, the person was facing the other way, talking to a friend about their weekend hangover.

I don't know where I was going. I think it was London. Although I was certain that I had no business there. I felt a sense of urgency, a need to get to my destination, to step off the train and run for my life. I couldn't entirely understand why I was so fearful and what or who I needed to see and get to. It was only when I sensed a figure behind me –far too close for comfort– that I realised it wasn't my destination that was the important detail, it was the man behind me.

His fingers danced up my spine, a merry path for him, a torturous trail for me. My spine stiffened. I could hear his loud breathing. His hot breath hit the back of my neck and goosebumps were raised on my skin. His voice was low, a soft drawl, sardonic. "Baby," I wanted to vomit. His hand curled around my throat and he pressed my body against the front of his, his hips dug into me and his arousal was clear. I opened my mouth to cry out, to yell for help from other passengers but no sound was made. His arm slithered around my waist, his hold was secure and difficult to break free from. "Shh," he murmured in my ear. "How many times do I have to tell you to stay quiet?" He was angry.

His hold tightened. The hand around my neck felt like a choke-hold, suffocating, squeezing the life out of me. I clawed at the hand at my throat, desperate to breathe, gasping. I was terrified. My heart hammered frantically in my chest, eager to escape. No-one was paying attention. I tried screaming but...Nothing.

"Please," I begged, feeling light-headed, my vision darkening, and my words a squawk, "Oscar–!"

I bolted upright in a cold sweat. My armpits felt damp and I kicked my legs free from the covers. Wiping down my flushed face, I sat on the edge of the bed, head downcast, knees apart, elbows on my thighs and forehead in my hands. I tried thinking of anything but the nightmare but it was difficult. Ghost hands lingered on my waist and my throat felt constricted as if there was a rope wrapped around it. I didn't feel good. I reached for a bottle of Summer-warm water and swallowed half of the bottle before setting it back down on the bedside table.

I looked ahead. The blinds and window were open. I must've forgotten to close them last night. The morning sun was rising from the horizon, spreading across a tropical orange and dusty pink sky, the clouds were a stark white against a blue backdrop. It was pretty. Picturesque. Staring at it only made me anxious. I didn't forget. I know that now. As if in a flashback, I watched time pedal to last night where a sleepy Shay in shorts and an old T-shirt closed her laptop on a YouTube video, yawned, got off the bed, closed the blinds and the windows and switched off the light before slipping under the covers.

I didn't understand what the hell was going on. Part of me thought I was still in a nightmare: A nightmare of a nightmare. Was I even making sense? Hell if I know. I stood up, rubbed my bare arm. My stomach twisted. Something felt off. The atmosphere in the house wasn't right. It was buzzing with energy. I reached my bedroom door and twisted the handle, intending to check on Irvin. I needed to make sure he was safe.

There was someone downstairs talking in a low voice. Somewhere far. I checked Irvin's bedroom. There was a lump under his covers. "Irvin," I called quietly, fear growing into an overwhelming sensation. "Hey. Irvin!"

A door closed shut softly from behind me. I turned sharply and became immobilised, terrified. I couldn't move. I stared at the figure in black at the top of the stairs. He (likely a he although I could be wrong) was obscured in black clothing and muted shadows of the hallway. He didn't move, didn't say or do anything. I imagined eyes fixed on me behind his mask. And then he raised a hand, pointed at me and ran a slow finger across his neck.

I didn't need a translation: I was dead.

**