Page 11 of Fragmented Illusions
“Well, well, well. Look what we have here!” the one with the most blood on his mask and hands shouts excitedly as he claps said hands multiple times in front of him before rubbing them together in that creepy, maniacal way you see psychos do in the movies. He tilts his head to the other side as I feel his eyes on me, tracing their way across the entirety of my body.
But it’s not his gaze in this very moment which causes my entire body to heat as the vomit forces its way up my esophagus; it’s the other man’s.
He hasn’t moved a muscle since I accidentally made myself known—which feels like it’s been hours, but in reality, only a few minutes at most. Everything about him is stoic, except for his gaze. Though his eyes are lost in the black depths of the eyes in his mask, I can feel them burning me—burningthroughme—all the same.
I take an unsteady step back. My heel twists underneath me as it catches on a deep groove in the wood, and I lurch to the side as I lose my balance. I fall with a crash to the wooden floor and scramble backwards as self-preservation kicks in.
Get away.
Just get away.
Why is he looking at me like that?
The one man continues to stare at me, unnerving me even more, but it’s the other man who starts moving. He keeps rubbing his hands together as he slowly walks towards me, all while keeping his head titled to the side—almost like his neck is permanently kinked like that.
I continue to scramble backwards on my ass across the floor. My brain is refusing to work and won’t send any signals to my body. I can’t get up. The only thing I can think to do is get away. I need to get away, but my limbs won’t cooperate with me.
I can feel splinters of wood ripping the leather material of my pants, exposing my flesh to the frigid air. The cool air against the sheen of sweat coating my entire body creates a stark contrast to my overheated skin.
“Where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?” the creepy one taunts as he takes another step closer to me. Though his steps are slow and deliberate, he is still gaining on me quickly and it’s enough to kick my ass in gear—literally.
My hands finally catch on something, and I manage to pull myself up quickly. I fall back against a wall and my hands smack the wood behind as I try to push myself into it, hoping I can force myself to become one with the wood and disappear completely.
I fucked up.
I let my messed up brain and my messed up thoughts get the best of me and now I’m condemned.
I saw something I never should have seen. A dead body. Blood. So. Much. Blood. And two men who look like they stepped out of my worst fucking nightmare.
Or your best.
My gaze snaps up at the faintest sound of footsteps, which I probably wouldn’t have been able to hear on a normal day, but there is nothing normal about this situation. Every single one of my senses is magnified by one hundred.
Both men are walking through the small doorway, coming into view now that I’m on the other side of the cabin. With the light now behind them, their black clothes cast them in an even deeper shadow, making their bodies impossible to see—only their bright semi-white masks visible.
How they are moving without making much noise in this old, creaky cabin is beyond me.
Because they’re probably here all the time.
Killing people.
“Such a pretty girl,” the creepy one says before he laughs, continuing to stalk toward me.
The vomit burns its way up my esophagus before spewing out of my mouth. I double over as my stomach clenches and cramps as I throw up all over the dirty floor in front of me. My head pounds painfully, radiating down my neck and spine, and causing my body to twitch painfully.
Throwing up reminds me of the days when I would make myself puke. The burn in my throat only solidifies those thoughts and for a split second, I miss it. The burn. The pain. The relief.
Among many other things.
But this isn’t me throwing up in the bathroom at school after I force myself to eat lunch in front of my “friends.” No. I’m throwing up because of what I saw. Because of what is about to happen to me.
I attempt to stand so I can get the hell away, but I heave a few more times instead as my body tries to expel more, but the contents of my stomach are completely empty. All I had was a few beers—I didn’t even eat today, so there wasn’t much for me to throw up.
I manage to wipe the back of my hand over my lips to clear the putrid liquid from my face and stand, pushing through the pain. My eyes dart to where I last saw the men, but something is not right.
They aren’t there.
There’snothingthere.
