Throat Full of Glass | ONC 2023

Chapter One - Bodies

The pressure in Justine's head drew her back to the land of the living as though a hurricane was touring every one of her synapses. She cracked one eye open and quickly closed it again. Even the dull light was like a hatchet to her skull. 

What the hell happened?

Not wanting to open her eyes she allowed her hands to search. Firstly her pockets, hoping for her phone. She sighs and allows her fingers to wander further, she recoiled at the texture of the bedspread. The fibres were full of dirt and dust; rough. Gooseflesh bloomed on her skin. As she pulled her hands back towards her chest they slid on something familiar.

Is that what I think it is? 

She cracked open her left eye. It was indeed a banknote, well broken in by years in circulation. The light was too dim to be sure if it was one of the founding fathers or presidents. But it wasn't alone. There were notes all over the bed, some under her, others stuck to her skin. She froze as her hand found something more solid in the bed. Her hand recoiled. 

Who the heck is that?

Her breath caught in her chest. With every second her insides twisted and knotted tighter. Nothing, not even a snore of derision. She closed her eyes and took a couple of deep breaths to steady her nerves. Light started to stream in through the large window casting everything in an eerie pink glow. The glass had long since gone. Now the frame stood empty allowing the breeze to tickle the last shred of curtain nailed to the wood. 

Where am I?

Taking her time she slipped out of the bed, dislodging more notes that floated to her bare feet. $100s, $50s and $20s. Before she could celebrate her windfall a splinter wedged itself into her left big toe. She bit her lip to stop the expletives from pouring out. Hobbling slightly she made her way to an old pot-bellied stove sat in the corner, its stove pipe full of holes and flaking rust. She used it as a seat while trying to pluck the hunk of wood from her flesh with her nails. Success came with a grimace and a few drops of blood. 

A desk sat under the window, its surface littered with everything nature had thrown through it over the past however many years of abandon. On top of the grime and detritus was a holdall. The sun hadn't had time to bleach the black, the lime green accents had picked up only minute traces of red/ orange dust. A glossy tag rotated slowly on its plastic loop. She glanced over at the stranger. 

Is it yours, or mine?

She flinched as she placed her injured foot back on the ground. Each step was cautious, of the rough boards and their tendency to groan in protest. Each loud outburst froze her in place. Her heart would rise in her throat as she focused her attention on the bed. It would take several minutes of nothing before she could unstick herself and take another tentative step towards the goal. 

With shaking hands, she pulled the zipper. More cash. Most were neatly stacked and secured with a band of paper. The shaking of her hands allowed a bundle to escape. It thunked on the desk, sending up a plume of dust that tickled her nose. Trying to hold in the sneeze made her head explode in a fresh wave of pain. It robbed her of the chance to hold back the second or third. The noise echoed through the old cabin. Tears pricked her eyes. Her stomach plummeted as her adrenaline rose. The lump in the bed didn't move.

Are they...?

She swallowed back her fear. Ignored the pain in her big toe and marched to the stranger's side of the bed. Dark stubble stood proud against the pallor of his skin. Her hands shook as she held them in front of his face. Nothing, not even a hint of breath against the back of her hand. 

I need to check his pulse.

The bedspread lay tucked up close to his neck as though he was trying to keep warm.