I didn't really expect to open my eyes at all after last night. I really thought I had drank myself to death. Yet, they opened, and pain instantly spread throughout my head and feet. The head was explainable; how much liquor I drank should have killed me, so it's no surprise I would have a killer hangover. But my feet hurting too?
I peeled myself from my couch where I must have passed out to glance down at my feet. I had to do a double-take at what I saw. Different size cuts decorated the poor bruised skin going from the soles of my feet all the way to the ankle. I must have had a real one-man party.
I stood shakily, only to wince and quickly sit back down.
"Shit," I sucked my teeth at the feeling of fresh glass penetrating my foot.
I carefully examined the newly-acquired wound, only to see that I had stepped with my full weight onto a pretty decently sized chunk of glass. I tried to pull on it to see if I could pry it out, but it seemed to be set in pretty deep.
Would I have to go to the hospital? I absolutely detested hospitals. So many go in for seemingly small issues only to never come out.
I sucked in a sharp breath and held it; I would pull this thing out myself if it killed me.
I held it in my palm with a strong grip, and mentally counted to three. Before I hit three, I yanked it out as hard as I could. I let out a shriek, instinctively covering the large cut with my hand as blood leaked down the sole.
I didn't have a doubt that such a cut would probably need stitches, but I didn't have the courage for it. Nor the insurance.
What did I do last night? A pounding headache, broken glass everywhere, and the stench of alcohol permeating my living room gave me a clue. I drank myself to a blackout. As I kept looking around to see the extent of my self-inflicted property damage, I noticed that all the frames with Henry in the shot were on the floor. The glass from them mixed with the broken glass from the bottles and created a huge mess. My living room was like an adrenaline-junkie's version of a childhood game, 'the floor is lava'. I wasn't any good at that game then, and apparently it still applied.
I didn't feel very proud of myself. Admittedly, it was one of my weaker moments. And now, I'd have to make my way to the bathroom without slicing myself like a deli ham.
I grabbed two couch pillows from the floor and shook them off, watching small glass shards fly off them as they shook. Before every step, I put the pillows down to walk on, finally arriving at the bathroom safely.
Why had I gone into such a fit of rage? If only I could remember. If only Henry hadn't hidden those bottles. I wonder if he actually thought he was successfully hiding his still very much active addiction? It was more obvious than the nose on Rudolph. Being with him was like being engaged to death and the wedding date was always a surprise. It felt like a bad flu. Stressing yourself out so bad wondering if they ate, wondering where they are. Asking yourself if they're telling the truth about being sober, or just so good at being intoxicated that they can hide it just that well. Crying to yourself because they hadn't come home for days, and you have no idea if they're alive or de-...
Dead.
He was really gone. But the strangest part was that even though his B.A.C was through the roof on his toxicology report, it wasn't drunk driving that killed him. The police said they suspected foul play. From his crime scene photos I had the burden of seeing, it was obvious why they thought that. They said they suspected a robbery, but I suspected a fucking monster. His face was left nearly unrecognizable with clean slashes all over his body. The attacker had to be using some sort of incredibly sharp weapon, if it was a blunt blade or knife the marks wouldn't have been so clean and straight.
An awful series of images that was burned into my brain. He definitely wasn't the Pope's son, but he wasn't the worst man to ever live, either. He didn't deserve to die in such a way.
I scoured the medicine cabinet, on the hunt for a gauze wrap. When I finally found it, I set to work right away. I started wrapping the gauze around my injured foot, nearly forgetting the most essential part to cleaning a wound.
"You need to use an antiseptic before you just wrap a wound,"
I stopped dead in my tracks. A deer in the headlights. The voice was masculine and threaded with a slight quality I didn't recognize. My heart raced in my chest and I thought of what to do. I didn't dare look up. I tried gathering my thoughts, but there was too many to try and sort them.
Run. Run. Get out of here. Fight back. Punch him. Don't give him time to react. Run. Take the fabric scissors from the cabinet and stab him. Run. Fight.
Adrenaline was consuming my body and I involuntarily shook.
"If you scream, or run, I'll eat your flesh and give your corpse to the weeds,"
My body trembled visibly now, still frozen with fear. Eat my flesh?
"W-who are you?"
A low chuckle came from the faceless voice. I didn't look up as I spoke, or as it spoke.
"Why don't we skip this tiresome dialogue? 'Who are you?' and 'Why are you here'? And of course, the classic, 'Are you going to kill me'?"
I swallowed hard.
Think of something. Quick. Think (Name). Think.
"My fiancé will be coming back any second. He's armed,"
A low growl emanated from the person that stood in front of me. "Oh, you mean Henry? That fiancé? You and I both know where he is, (Name)."
I stood up, my thoughts fervently arguing with one another. A left and right hemisphere composed the brain, and yet I still couldn't form a single cohesive thought between them.
He moved quickly, almost at an inhuman rate, to outstretch both of his arms across the exit of the bathroom directly in front of me, snarling as he did so. I jerked my head forward on instinct from the sudden movement, and that's when I finally caught a glimpse of the figure before me. I started taking mental pictures of his person so I could describe him to police should I make it out alive.
Black pull-over style hoodie. Loose-fitting blue jeans, worn down at the knees. Black hunter's boots.
My breath hitched in my throat when I finally glanced up at his face.
A navy blue mask, no facial features other than black sockets with a sort of paint or oil dripping from them, running down from the eyes all the way to the bottom of the mask.
"Out of all the choices you could have made, you've chosen my least favorite. To stand as if you're going to run. It wouldn't be wise. Not only because I specifically told you not to do so, but because I love a chase,"
I couldn't figure out the components of his voice when he first spoke. Now I knew. He wasn't human. His voice was demonic and dark, laced with hints of amusement.
His arm reached out so quickly I couldn't even register it was wrapped around my throat until I felt a sharp stinging on either side. I looked down frantically, my hands reflexively landing on his own hand to try and pry his ever tightening grip off of my neck. Tears welled in my eyes as I saw the smallest sliver of his skin peeking from his hoodie sleeve; pale gray.
I clawed at his hand frantically, but it did nothing. I dug my nails into his skin as deep and as hard as I could, feeling it rip out in chunks beneath my nails. Still, he was unmoving.
It was becoming harder and harder to breathe, my vision going black completely then coming back over and over.
I thought about if I had accomplished everything I wanted in life. Was I a good person to those who needed someone good? Was I a friend to those who needed me most?
Faces of those I had loved flashed through my mind, and I felt myself smile.
As a dull, tingling feeling spread throughout my body, I thought about my first boyfriend, and about how embarrassed I was at my eighth grade prom when I spilled my date's drink all over his tuxedo. I thought about my best friend, and felt bad I had to stand her up when the police came to tell me about Henry. I'd never get to see her again.
As the last bit of oxygen left my brain, I wanted my last thought to be about something good. Something stupid, something menial even. But as they say, you can't always control what you think about, and at that moment, I thought about my nightmare.
The body on the table, the masked chanters circling the body. The bloody spoon.
Rise, rise, rise.
--OKayyyyyy, so.. what do we think? Why do you think Jack decided to circle back so soon? What would you have done if you were (Name)? (well, you ARE, but..)
The next chapter is going to be about what happened when Jack went home, and why he decided to go back. It's been a slow start, but it's about to get kicked into high gear. Reminder, I NEVER plan these stories out ahead of time, they get thought of as I write them, so twists and turns will probably be everywhere. As always my lovely marinara dips, if you're going to Meatball, do it Extravagantly. <3--