Thirteen Minutes Only || Horror

Part #8

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"Are you really not going to eat Max?" Jules's mother said, holding out a spoonful of rice over to Max's chair, or at least where his spot at the dining table was. Jules glanced at the rusty piece of furniture. Empty. Ghosted.

She suddenly felt a gust of cold air blow at her.

"M-Max?" She called out, stirred by false glimmer of hopes. "Stop with this nonsense you two and go get me a glass of water, Jules." he said. Jules had no choice but to reply, "Yes" and excuse herself from the table. A defiant glare from him quickly reminded her to obediently force the words out of her mouth if she had to, "F-father."

He smiled, "Good little girl," he said to her as she handed him the glass of water wishing she had poisoned it. Earlier she had been a firm believer in the stance that no one deserved death, but now she could feel the perspectives shifting. Some people are better gone from this world, she thought to herself.

"Max," her mother cooed, "You have to eat at least something. How else are you going to grow up big and strong?" The untouched rice spoon still in her hand. The scene itself was heartbreaking; a mother refusing to accept the death of her young son so much so that she had probably invented a ghost version of him in her head. 

"Look at your mother," he sighed as if the sight was a nuisance. Jules grinded her teeth, "She's totally lost it over her son that never existed." he continued stopping only for a deep breath, "Theres only so much room in this world for enough people. You wanna know what we call these type of people? Hysterical."

Hysterical. Jules almost laughed to herself. And what makes you think you aren't? Isn't everyone just a different sort of fucked in the head? Still, to think that Max was never there was unfathomable. He couldn't have been a figment of our imaginations this whole time...? She decided not to believe herself. I guess some of us are a little more fucked in the head than others.

 She studied the burn marks on her supposed father's hand and wondered how much would slicing those wounds open hurt or would lighting them on fuel hungry fire would be more contenting of a torture. He noticed this and placed his hand over hers on the table. Jules's gut twisted in disgust, she could feel her stomach and bowels wanting to throw up her bland dinner but she held back and instead channeled all her hatred into focusing on the loose burnt skin in contact with hers. The rugged texture oddly offered her some peace of mind.  At least it had hurt like hell when he went. 

More than that she loathed how solid it felt. It was real. Mortal. Living. Not imaginary like Max had been. 

Max... Her mind went trailing back to every carefully captured moment she had had with her little brother and it only acidified the interaction even more. One thought led to another and soon she found herself pondering how satisfying the sound of his bones crushing would feel, what it would sound like to hear his blood dripping to the floor if she dug her nails deep into his scaly burnt skin. They would then have matching father-daughter scars on their hands. 

Some bonding experience that would be. She thought. A lot else went through her mind as well, all of which gruesomely included graphic violence. Whether Max had been real or not was a whole other debate, the thing was his place wasn't his to take this easily, she reasoned with herself and in her head it made perfect sense.

It then hit her. How would she know what was real? Was she even real? Her vision snapped back to what her real was and the melting candle on the far end of the table caught her eye. 

"Jules-" her father began but she couldn't have possibly heard his warning, for her own thoughts were at war. The next would cut the previous one half way breaking all hell lose.

Only one real way to find out I guess, was her final thought as she lunged over to knock the candle over. The dying flame crackled in joy as it now found a grimy tablecloth to feast on. Blinding yellow flames shot up within seconds and spread across the tiny table like a deadly tumor mapping itself out. Like an accidental water spill soaking into every fiber it possibly could. 

Jules tightened her grip on her father's hand and pressed it hard against the table. An agonizing scream emerged from her father's throat as the dancing flames paused to feed on their hands. The louder he screamed the more strongly she tried to crush his hand on the table. She almost found it entertaining to see how weak and sensitive mortals were. 

She smiled.

Whats real hurts like hell. Whats not doesn't. Everything else elapsed into a blend of yells as pain was felt.

A/n: I'm so sorry if this doesn't make sense 😭