The Diner from Hell

Chapter 1 - Tomato Juice

Walking the streets at night always had my heart pounding. Every time I stepped outside alone, I was constantly checking over my shoulder, hurrying along, feeling like someone was following me. Tonight was no different. I rushed, passing closed shops and empty alleys, feeling the urge to run for no apparent reason.

My friends said I was paranoid, even told me I should see a psychologist about it. I half agreed with them, but I didn't like the idea of telling some random stranger of my late night fears. Most of the time when I walked alone, I carried pepper spray, or even a knife in my purse sometimes.

Tonight I had nothing. My sister needed to borrow my pepper spray because of some party, and I hadn't been thinking to bring a knife. The fact that I was defenseless made the night ten times scarier.

I was getting to a point where I'd need to go into an open store. There was a problem though: there were no open stores. Seriously, everything I passed had a closed sign hanging on the window.

I was half running in my state of fear, my breath coming in shallow gasps. I was beginning to seriously freak out, but then I saw it.

A lit up diner. A safe haven. I realized I was being ridiculous, but that didn't take away the fear. It didn't make my heart settle down or the feelings of terror fade away. It just made me feel like a pathetic idiot.

And even if I was a pathetic idiot, I was not staying on these streets alone at eleven thirty at night. The diner was a place to stay for a couple minutes, maybe an hour, somewhere I'd be safe for a short amount of time. I'd call a cab, wait for it to come, and go home safely.

Or so I thought. See, what I didn't know was that that diner would change my whole life. That some new, inexperienced, and frankly, stupid waitress, would set into motion something that would turn my world around. Possibly for the better, possibly for the worse.

Walking into the store, it looked normal. People sitting, drinking, eating. Two, to be exact. I guess not many people go to diners that late at night. I didn't blame them. I wouldn't go to diners that late at night either if I wasn't about to pee my pants with fear outside.

“Oh, hello dear, sit wherever you like,” a short, brown haired woman, who I assumed worked there, said. “Someone will be with you in just a minute.”

I wondered what possibly could have held the waitress or waiter up. I mean, the place was practically deserted. Unless they had customers in the back or something, anyways.

I chose a table by the window, so I could see outside and hopefully convince myself that there was nothing to be afraid of. After sitting, I took a look around the store. The walls were a burgundy color, giving the room a dark kind of feeling. A few pictures of landscapes hung, but the whole place was pretty bland.

As I was checking out the room, a waitress approached my table. She had orange-red hair pulled up in a bun and she looked about twenty-five. She was the type of girl who was really pretty without trying, even in an ugly waitress uniform.

“You want a menu?” she asked. Her voice was clipped and angry sounding, with a slight accent--Irish, I guessed.

My eyes widened. I wondered what her problem was, or if she was just a natural bitch. “No. Just a drink,” I started. I knew what I said next would probably be perceived as odd, but I didn't really care. “Do you have tomato juice, by any chance?”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and then started laughing. I furrowed my eyebrows. Well, I knew most people didn't drink tomato juice, but never before had anyone started laughing at me for ordering it. I cleared my throat.

“Yeah, we have tomato juice.” She shook her head, still snickering, saying without words that she thought I was crazy.

“Than I'll have some,” I said.

She pursed her lips. “Okay then. Is that all?”

I nodded. The waitress walked away, still laughing. What was so funny about tomato juice? Most people probably didn't drink it, but I liked it. Plus it calmed me down when I had one of my little paranoid attack things. And even though it wasn't the most popular drink in the world, it wasn't laughable. The waitress (and aren't waitresses supposed to say, “Hi, I'm insert-name-here and I'll be your server today” anyways?) obviously had something wrong with her head. And she definitely wasn't getting a tip from me.

As I was thinking, a glass full of a red drink plopped down in front of me. I looked to my right. It was the waitress. I made sure to look at her name tag so I could complain about poor service. Apparently her name was Elliette.

“Thanks,” I said in a monotone. I started to pick up my drink, expecting her to leave, but she just stood there. I raised my eyebrows. She shook her head, almost like she was trying to clear it, and sauntered back to the kitchen.

I rolled my eyes and sipped my drink. It didn't taste like tomato juice, though. It tasted sweet, and I'd never had anything like it before. I frowned and took another drink. No. It certainly wasn't tomato juice, but it was delicious.

I kept on drinking and before I knew it the glass was empty. I blinked in shock; that was quick. My head felt a little fuzzy, and my vision was blurry. I didn't feel drunk, but just...weird. Numb.

I decided to leave, forgetting my fears and plans to call a cab completely. Spotting Elliette behind the counter, I called, “Hey, I'm ready to pay.”

She looked up from whatever she was doing. She narrowed her eyes but walked over and handed my my check. I paid the small amount that tomato juice—or whatever that stuff was—cost and left.

The streets were still as dark and spooky as before, but this time, I felt no fear. I still had the fuzzy drunk-but-not-drunk feeling but I ignored it, figuring the drink must have had just a little bit of alcohol in it. When I was under the influence, I wasn't a walking panic attack, I was more like...a little chihuahua, thinking it could take on the world. It was a wonder I wasn't an alcoholic.

But having no fear had its disadvantages, too. Like being an idiot. Which is what I found out when I was mugged.

“Gimme whatever's in your pockets,” a creep with a knife demanded. He was tall and skinny, and was probably a crackhead.

I glared at him. “No.” The fuzziness made me lose all common sense and self preservation too, it seemed.

He smirked. “You don't wanna say no, honey. See this knife? It'll slit your throat before you can scream.”

Cocking my head, I said, “Go ahead.” That night, I was a woman of few words. The words weren't even good.

His smirk dropped, his face hesitant. I figured he was all bark and no bite. But then it came back, and he raised the knife. Still I was not afraid, even though I knew I should have been.

I knew I was probably going to die, over five dollars and whatever other junk I had in my pocket. And that this guy would have my death on his conscience for the rest of his pathetic life.

Honestly, though, why did I have to stop being a chicken then? The normal me, the usual Sammi would have been shaking in fear and handed this guy whatever he asked for. The normal Sammi would have cried and begged for my life. But nope, this freaky, emotionless, hollow, fuzzy person had to take over at just the wrong time.

I didn't even get any famous last words. Just, “Go ahead,” and then a knife slit my throat and everything was black. For a while, anyways.

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Author's note: Is it horrible? Amazing? Did it make you want to stab your eyes out? Comment please. :)