Bed of Clouds

The room was dark, the silence deafening. The only light came from beneath the door behind him, the only sound was his quiet gasps for breath in the chilly air. Jack took a step forward, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Another step forward, and then another. Soon he was flying through the long corridor, frantically trying to escape the cold, white faces he knew were looming behind him. They were all around him, surrounding him with their sunken eyes and blue lips. He wondered if they could smell his fear.

And suddenly they were gone, and the air was freezing, chilling him to his core. He could hear the snow crunching under his boots and the sound of Liam’s annoying, familiar laugh. His eyes slid open, the rush of adrenaline slowly fading. Liam was standing nearby, doubled over, his face screwed up in demented spasms of laughter.

“God, you’re so ugly when you laugh.”

He ignored this insult. “You should have seen yourself, man,” he panted, pointing to the monitors on the wall. “I never knew you were such a scaredy-cat.” Then he doubled over again, still laughing insanely at Jack’s expense. It hadn’t been that hilarious, had it?

“Anyway, I got us some coffee.” He held out a white Styrofoam cup with steam rising from the top, letting out a small chuckle.

Jack took the cup, cupping his cold hands around it. His fingers were as cold as the dead. He shivered, though it wasn’t because of the cold breeze. They began to stumble their way back to the fair, leaving footprints in the inch-deep snow.

Jack took a sip, choking as the scalding liquid burned his tongue. Liam pounded him on the back as he spat it out. The coffee left a small brown stain on the white carpet blanketing the ground. Jack’s choking fit sent Liam into yet another laughing attack, and it was another minute before they could continue walking.

“Ah, you’re so stupid.”

“At least I don’t look like an underfed rat.”

At that he straightened. “I do not.”

“You do. You look like a dirty rat. In all senses of the word.”

Both the boys paused for a moment, staring at each other in silence, until they both burst out in laughter again. They stumbled down a shortcut to the fair, their laughter echoing in the otherwise silent alleyway. It wasn’t until they were halfway down the alley that they heard more voices.

“Shhh. Shhh.” They stifled their laughter as they heard footsteps nearing them.  A man was heading towards them, wearing thick, warm clothing to protect him from the cold. Gloves covered his fingers and a black beanie capped the top of his head. Jack’s gut twisted; the man made him feel uneasy, though he didn’t know why.

As the man drew nearer, he put his hand into his jacket. He drew out something long. Something shiny. Something sharp. Jack gasped; the man pushed Liam against the wall, and suddenly there was the knife, poking out of his stomach. Liam stared down at his own stomach, as though he couldn’t believe what had happened. His jacket was already becoming stained with crimson around the edges of the knife. He lifted his gaze and stared back at the man. Then suddenly the knife was out, and the blood flowed even faster from his wound. He crumpled to the floor, his back leaning against the brick wall.

Jack stood as still as a statue, his mouth wide open in horror. He knew he should run, run, run, as fast as he could, but his feet couldn’t move. They felt as though they were glued to the floor. His heartbeat quickened; his heart was pounding. He watched as Liam stared into his eyes, surrounded by a pool of blood, his breath rasping. He breathed in, and breathed out. He breathed in, and breathed out. He breathed in, and then he wasn’t breathing out anymore.

Suddenly Jack’s legs had the ability to move again, and he backed away, knowing that he wouldn’t escape in time. This was it. This was how he was going to die. Right here, in this alleyway, next to his best friend lying in a pool of blood. This man, this murderer, was going to be the last thing he saw before he died.

Liam’s murderer advanced on him, knife dripping with dark blood. He stabbed the knife into Jack’s chest, and Jack was on the floor somehow, he couldn’t understand how. The knife was once again in the killer’s hand and the snow wasn’t white anymore, it was crimson, crimson like Liam’s blood, crimson like his own blood. He didn’t understand how it had happened. They were supposed to be back at the fair by now, not lying here, one of them dead, on a crimson bed of clouds the colour of the sunset. But, oh, the bed was so comfortable, and he rested his head on the pillow made of clouds. The night air was cold, and he could already feel himself turning into one of those dead bodies in the haunted house, except he was going to be really, truly, dead. He stared at a white patch of snow, the only patch of pure snow nearby. It was dotted with exactly three drops of blood.

The face of his killer was not the last thing Jack would see before he died. It would be those three dark drops of blood, stark against the snow.