Creative Writing
by WHO on Aug-1-2002

She had no idea how long she’d been here, in her room, naked and bleeding on her bed. However, she did know that every muscle in her bruised body ached with the extrusion of her escape. Her hair was ragged and sweat soaked; it stuck to her head like wet cloth. Dry tears had pinched her cheeks. Something brittle coated her lower lip and chin. Curious, she snaked her tongue out to taste. Blood. It must have been a close one.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a whip cracked. They were gone for now, but surely They would be back. She had to get out of here.

She needed cloths. The task seemed easy, considering that she was in her own bedroom and her closet gaped open from across the room. But in the past two years, she had soon learned that nothing was as it appears. Two long years, They had tormented her. During the last torturous episode, she had noticed that They seemed bored with their sadistic little game. She always knew a day would come when They would grow weary of her.

The closet. She had to pack. She had to get of here.

There was a problem with that, though. She was floating…at least two inches off the bed. Suddenly terrified, more than a little confused, she froze as if paralyzed. She clenched her eyes shut and opened them again in the vain attempt to make what she was seeing not real. How could this be possible? Jesus, what have They done to her now? Tentatively, she reached her hand out and tugged at the nearest bedpost, trying to pull herself back down onto something solid. Her efforts were, not only bleakly fruitless, but exhausting as well.

Jesus, she had to get out of here. She had to get out of here, but She. Could. Not. Move.

With horror, she realized that she was trapped. They had expected her to run, so obviously, they had given her something to make her levitate, thus effectively thwarting her chances of escape. She miserably considered that she never should have tried to outsmart Them. Never should have allowed herself even the slightest bit of hope. Now, They would kill her.

All at once, blind panic collapsed her mind. Her brain, suddenly a cold, granite fist clenched and unclenched viciously. White hot bolts of light flashed behind her eyes, traveled the length of the forearms, and accumulated at her fingertips. Briefly, she wondered if her screams were audible or merely figments of her overactive imagination. Then, a burst of pain, almost Technicolor in quality, clouded over every ounce of reason or rational thought she once may have possessed. Jesus, this hurt.


Suddenly: Blackness. Quiet.

Timidly, she dared to open her eyes. She was still in her room. However, she was no longer floating lazily above her jumbled bed. Now, she was huddled before a full-length mirror that hung on the opposite wall of her room.

She cringed when she saw herself. Her hair was considerably more stringy than before. It was now similar to wire or quite possibly, matted rope. Fresh red welts decorated her arms looking like a morbid lace pattern. Her eyes were the worst, though: Blood shot, panic stricken, and slightly dazed. As if they had absolutely no recollection of the normal happy girl who once peered out behind them.

Then, she saw Them, in the mirror, quickly and eagerly approaching, animalistic and hungry. However, she was unsure of whether or not they were approaching from behind, or coming, quick and furious, straight out of the mirror. However, there were two obvious solutions to this mystery: Look behind or reach out and touch the mirror.

She couldn’t do either.

She watched. Leathery skin peeling away from dull yellow teeth. Strings of drool and foam damply clinging to dilapidated chins. Cold metallic eyes rimmed with blood and puss. Gnashing teeth. Putrid breathe. Claws worn into needle sharp points.

Look behind…

She watched. There were 6 or 7 of them; she couldn’t tell for sure. Moving frantically, but with an odd, subtle grace. Eyes crazed, yet filled with cunning and cold astuteness. Hateful, vicious, pitiless, but there was beauty in their cruelty also. They were fast, so fast, yet somehow, it was taking them forever to reach her. Oxymoron’s within themselves.

…reach out and touch the mirror.

She waited. Heart racing. Hands shaking. Terrified beyond human comprehension. She waited, full of dread…yet…possessing a certain amount of impatience too. And maybe, just maybe, a little eager…

Look behind or reach out and touch the mirror.

She finally chose to look. Mid-turn, she felt the first foul talon pierce her shoulder. Then, the pack was upon her, tearing and slobbering as They fed on her in frenzied madness. She felt Their lips, slick with blood as Their teeth sunk into the soft hollow of her throat. She felt the warm rank breathe of Them, hot and frantic inside her ear. She heard Them grunt and moan, almost as if in ecstasy every time she put up the least amount of a struggle. She saw ghoulish faces, bulging eyes, and raw power in every flexed muscle or tendon. She reached her hand out, in awe, and attempted to place it gently and carefully against what might have been a cheek when suddenly the lower have of her body felt abnormally lighter. Dazed, head lolling, she looked down and watched as a single talon effortlessly slit her belly open from side to side and her entrails spilled out onto her legs. Weakly, she struggled to gather up the thick slimy ropes and press them back into her body. All at once, she realized that her efforts were futile and dropped the warm steaming heaps back down onto the floor where they most assuredly would be consumed by Them. Then, she laid back, arms at her side, palms up, as if in supplication. Defeat and indifference masked her face. Nothing could save her now.

Far away, she heard footsteps. A door swung idly open. Then:

“Hey Stacey? Oh dear Lord! STACY?! Oh God! Stacey, my God! Stacy! What are you doing to yourself?!”

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