The British Nightmare - An Ice Nine Kills Story

Chapter 1

(Y/N) - Your name

(D/L/N) - Dad's last name

(Y/I/N) - Your Instagram name

"You can't run...or hide...you know I will find you..." he says again, louder than last time. His voice booming down the corridor. I remain hidden, but I sense it won't be too much longer til...

BEEP, BEEP, BEEP BE-

Turn that shit off. Fuckin' dreams man. They never get easy to handle do they. No matter the subject, damn.

Alarm went off, that means it's eight in the morning, again. Meaning it's Wednesday. Meaning tomorrow is deadline day...oh shit, tomorrow is deadline day. I've only got 426 words, meaning I have to find 1574 words by this time tomorrow. Excellent.

I begrudgingly throw myself out of my bed, both feet harshly landing on the carpet below me. Using my sleepy skills, I find my beaten up slippers that I have had, admittedly, for way too long for it to be healthy. I rub my still half-closed eyes and rid them of the weird crusty shit you get in the mornings, regardless of how well or how long you slept. I do a weird possession-esque stretch and yawning sequence before gathering enough energy to lump myself towards the bathroom to splash some water over my face.

I slowly stumble towards the sink, saying hello to my beautiful cat, Stormy, a big ol' ball of grey and black fluff with piercing yellow eyes and a tiny pink nose. In my eyes, she's the most beautiful cat on the planet. I give her a little pet, then move on with getting washed, dressed and power-typing my way towards a possible low C on my coursework. Face and body washed in warm-ish water and some pomegranate and mint soap, I dry off and move back to my room to spend at least 30 minutes changing and swapping different outfits and dresses and shirts and skirts until I give up caring and just put the first outfit on. In the end, I decided on a pair of tight-ish black denim shorts, fishnets on my arms and legs, a cut up Architects t-shirt, my most expensive pair of Doc Martens and a pair of thigh-high tight material things. Before you think ANYTHING, I just look like this all the time. Whether I am actively listening to Architects, The Smiths, Slipknot or ABBA, I will always look like I walked out of a fangirl's smut novel.

Makeup, I couldn't really be bothered with, so I slapped on some eyeliner, tidied my eyebrows up, did a bit of eyeliner in my waterline and dashed a bit of highlight on my nose and cheekbones, and for my hair I just brushed it and left it at that, not that I was planning on going anywhere or doing anything for my day, asides maybe go to Tesco later, or maybe McDonalds.

With that, I was ready. I plugged my laptop in using the charger in the wall next to my window, which was stupidly not even near my desk but hey, who even needs a proper working/studying environment! I loaded up my documents, opened all of my research, re-read what I had already written, took my pens and notepad out and sat and waited for inspiration to hit me!...It's gonna hit me right?...I'll just sit here for a few minutes, read these notes and research and I will know exactly what to type...I just know it!...

It's been 5 minutes and all of this staring at words and paper that I have already read a million times isn't giving me any inspiration. I'll put some music on, that might help, or so I think. I'll just find an angry playlist on Spotify, that'll do. Scroll, scroll, scroll...Ah! This playlist looks alright. I'll just connect my speaker to my phone...Okay done! Aaand...press shuffle! 

The first song on the playlist was The Chapeltown Rag by Slipknot. Recent enough, but not angry enough. Skip.

The next song was Mistakes Like Fractures by Knocked Loose. Meh, I've never been a Knocked Loose fan, but everyone has their opinions. Skip.