Page 14 of Ready Or Not

I have a weird dream that I’m in a dark room with some shadowy man. I weave in and out of the dream and consciousness. I can’t keep my eyes open. Or closed? I’m so confused.

The first real thing I feel is cold. It starts at my fingertips, and I focus on the feeling as hard as I can. This is awake. I know this isn’t a dream.

It takes a while to be able to move my hands and even longer to sit up. When I do, I realize I’m lying on a couch. The room is dark and open. It looks like…I’m in someone’s dining room? There’s no table, only the couch I’m on and a small coffee table. Beside me looks like a shadowy living room, in front is a kitchen, and on the other side is the…front door?

What is going on? Have I not woken up? This isn’t my house. My brain feels sluggish. My body is covered in sweat, but I’m freezing.

Fuck. The sleeping pills. I took too many before I went to bed. I rub my eyes.

The cornfield comes back to me in horrifying reality, and my stomach clenches. All the emotions I tried to escape come roaring back in confusing noise. That woman fucked me against my will, and then I ran home, took pills in an attempt to forget, and passed out.

Where the fuck am I?

I stand, and my legs are shaky. How could I be so fucking stupid? I stumble to the front door, feeling queasy. The knob is cool in my hands, and I twist, but the door doesn’t open. I rattle it, then glance up.

It’s padlocked—from the inside.

I stare at the lock for a second.

Oh fuck. I think I’m going to be sick.

I make it to the edge of the door frame before I hurl onto the floor. There’s not much to puke up, but my body expels everything I have. I need to puke up the horrible feeling in my gut, but as soon as I’m done vomiting, it’s still there.

I need it to get out. Get out, get out, get out. I try to puke again, but the fear remains.

Slowly, I straighten. There has to be another way out. As I glance around, I notice the short dresser by the front door with a mirror above it. By the side of the mirror is a collage of printed faces. All of them have different expressions. And above each expression is written a word. Happy, sad, scared, angry, and on and on.

They’re all emotions. Someone has been studying emotions.

I’m going to be sick again.

I latch onto one face and realize it’s the same one I’m making: fear. I scramble back the way I came, only to hear the creaking of the floor above me.

Footsteps.

I’m not alone.

I dart to the kitchen, intent on opening the window and scrambling out. All I can see is a porch and a big front yard. This is someone’s home in the country.

“Going somewhere?” a deep, soothing voice rumbles.

I whirl and suck in a gasp. A man stands in the entryway to the kitchen, leaning casually against the wall. He fixes startling green eyes on me. His face is handsome, his cheeks carved, and his jaw sharp. He’s in a tank, and his arms, hands, and neck are covered in tattoos. In fact, the only area not covered is his face. The man offers a small smile.

I can’t tell if he’s smiling at me or laughing at me.

The man raises his hand in a placating way. “You’re sick. Let me help.”

I grip the counter behind me so hard I feel the edges cutting into my fingers.

The man smiles wider, and it’s dazzling. His teeth are all white and straight. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I want to go home.”

“Of course.” The man gestures at the couch. “I need you to be able to walk, though.”

I narrow my eyes. This is not right. None of this is right.

The man steps out of the entryway so I have space. I glance around the kitchen.

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