Alive
The empty sky, devoid of light
I wake up to the soft glow of dawn illuminating the insides of my eyelids. I expect the warm and energetic voice of May to wake me— nothing comes. Just pure silence. Sitting up slowly, I scan my surroundings— oh. The man from last night is real. I am laying in an oddly comfortable old-timey bed with dirty yellow floral sheets neatly draped over me. The room is old and worn out by time, adorned in off-sage wallpaper with dark bruce oak panels that cover it halfway; the wallpaper has small white and pink flowers scattered about the surface. The rest of the room is grossly plain, spare the dusty white rug in the center of the room, the full length mirror beside the bed side table, and the dresser opposite. The half open window on the left side of the room wears thin curtains that lift with each short breeze that trails through the cloth. The room smells of old books and freshly cut wood, and oddly, the faint scent of candle wax.
I brush my hand over my stomach gently, snapping myself out of a trance. My hand is met with a tightly wrapped bandage. I look down and see that not only am I cleaned up, I also have different clothes. I am wearing a large grey t-shirt with loose black sweats. The garments are baggy— more than my liking, at least. My hands trail to the strings on my sweatpants to tighten them to my hips. "The fuck..." I whisper. My eyes dart around the room once again, quicker this time.
The door is slightly cracked open. I think for a moment.
Should I stand? Slowly.
I turn, tossing my feet off the side of the bed. A small breath draws in through my lips, "You got this." I breathe, pushing myself up. As I stand, the world spins around me, causing me to stumble. I catch myself before I can fall, pressing my left palm onto the bedside table. I recollect myself after a hot-cold feeling gushes through me. Loosely putting my arms out for stability, I take one step, then another, then another. Each step sends pain up my body, but I can care less. I need to care less. Smooth, Quinn.
No. No, I can't be doing that right now. I've got to get out of here.
That thought only lingers for a second more before I feel a firm tug on my left wrist. With my senses preoccupied with the pain in my stomach and the grogginess that oh so incessantly tortures my brain, I didn't feel the rope on my skin. I dumbly bounce my arm, earning another firm tug from the bind.
Shit, shit, shit! I need to cut it quickly— where is he? I don't know if I have enough time.
I snap myself back to reality, whipping my head around the room. There is nothing I can find from a swift glance that could cut the rope in an instant. I backtrack three steps and fall onto the bed, making the unusually plush mattress dip under my weight.
"Think, think, think..." I tell myself.
The bed frame is wood. Could I thin the rope with it?
No. No I can't— the reach isn't firm enough, I probably won't have enough time, and I wouldn't have a decent enough surface to use. Same goes for the table. Too dull.
The lamp?
No. It looks like if I did so much as graze a finger over it it'd shatter... I wouldn't be able to use the broken glass in time either. He'd hear the break, I'm sure.
I release a shaky and disappointed breath. My eyes clench shut, closing off the world around me as if it'll help clear my head.
Okay... I will be okay. That man hasn't killed me, he even wrapped me up... gave me clothes.
I've got this— I'm okay. I am okay.
Before any more reassurances can cross my mind, the bedroom door to the right of the bed opens. I freeze as the man from the night before lets himself in. His eyes look weirdly innocent in contrast to his scarily tall and muscular build. His dark hair curls into an overgrown mullet, hanging over his porcelain mask; on his 'face', there is a yellow smiley face on the cheek bone with a green star below it— a teardrop sticker rests next to the corner of his right eye. The right side of his mask is still cracked from the blow Justin landed, scaling from the eye socket, to the side of the mask, to the lip where it looks reminiscent of a spiderweb.
A few chips are scattered along the surface, leaving behind rough patches on the dirty, blood-stained surface.
I notice his neck, chest, and arms. They are hairy, but through that, I can see burn marks and laceration scars. A shiver creeps down my back. I look down at his clothes; he wears a dirty white tank top, messy black trousers, and black gloves to top it all off.
The man catches my eye as I look back up. His eyes flicker from my stomach, then back to my face.
"It's you." I scan myself tensely, then once again meet his gaze. Normally, I wouldn't be speaking. Maybe it's the fact that I just woke up, or the pain holding a larger part in my brain, but I happen to find myself with a head full of things to say, to ask.
He nods curtly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
He changed me... how much did he see? Why did he do this?
"Who are you?" I ask, holding his blank stare. A murderer. A stalker.
"Kenny." He says. His voice sounds educated and low. I would say calm, but no, instead blank. Dull, maybe. After hearing it a bit clearer, he sounds like he hasn't used his voice in a while... up until last night that is.
We stare at each other for a moment. Kenny takes two steps closer to me, almost closing the distance.
"Hey," I start, catching his attention. Don't you dare push it.
Kenny's posture suggests that he is listening so I proceed to speak.
"Why didn't you..." I trail off, gulping at my words. A cold sweat begins to break out on my forehead, beading into small drops.
Kenny thinks for a moment, still staring into my eyes. I can tell he knows what I mean, but something tells me he won't say the entire truth. "It wasn't worth it."
I stay still as a statue, processing his words. 'Wasn't worth it'? Like I'm just something expendable? And what, if I was fine and running normally it would have been worth it? I shake my head, grasping either of my elbows loosely over my stomach. Now is when I break eye contact.
Kenny doesn't reply, instead he stares down at my midsection. It makes me uncomfortable, squirmy. I readjust and clasp my hands in my lap, beginning to fidget with my fingers. "What do you want?" I whisper. I try to fight off the stupid tremble that tortures my body but it won't go away; something about the fact that he tried to kill me last night.
"I save your life, and yet you still ask for more." Kenny remarks coldly; the firmly pronounced 's's are enough to shut me up.
He closes the distance, placing a few things I can identify as a towel, hydrogen peroxide, a packaged roll of gauze, and some sort of a cream on the bed side table. He crouches, leveling with me so he can reach for my shirt. I lean away from his large hands, giving a very obvious flinch— it was exaggerated but I think that it's maybe a little fair in these circumstances. My arms are lifted as a barrier between him and my gash, the back-side slightly extended towards him.
Kenny locks eyes with me and his hint at clear confusion, "Your wound." He speaks.
I blink sheepishly, remaining tense. Silently and reluctantly, I lean the slightest bit closer while moving my arms to my sides. Kenny slowly reaches for my shirt, making sure I follow his every movement (which I keenly do). It seems that every time he moves even a centimetre a different part of me flinches. His hands reach under my shirt, stopping just above the bandage. I grasp the hem from him gently— I'd rather this shirt on my body not be his responsibility. Kenny then moves his hands to the back of my bandage, seeming to feel or search for something. It takes an awkward minute, but he eventually finds what he was looking for, and abruptly the bloodied bandage loosens.
I let out the air I didn't know I was holding and watch him wrap his arms around me to unravel the bandage. The last layers peel off of my wound, earning a hurt wince at the sting. "How is it?" I ask quietly, watching him scan my stomach.
"Because you decided to leg it, you messed up the wound up even worse. That was bloody stupid." Kenny replies coldly, reaching beside himself to grab the four things. I cringe at his tone, but the second he turns back around my expression falls. He drops the ointment and the bandage onto my lap.
"He's going to kill you, you know? You should get to him before he gets to you." My father's gruff voice sounds. It catches me off guard— he's never able to speak so clearly. How long has it been since I've taken my meds? That thought spikes another— just how long have I really been here? Have I been asleep for days?I decide to dismiss those thoughts for now. Instead I look around the room for a reflection to spot him in, which happens to be the window. His face remains bloody and mottled as usual; his greasy curly brown hair hangs over his face much like the dirt-stained curtains hanging over the wooden frame. His ice blue eyes stick out from the dark red blood that surrounds his eye sockets and dribbles down the left of his face. His eyes fixate on the lamp to send me a wordless message.
I would've fought Kenny if he wasn't the real, living Bigfoot.
I mentally scoff, removing my eyes from the window. I meet the sight of Kenny unscrewing the cap of the hydrogen peroxide (which I'm not sure that he should really be using on a wound like mine). He dumps the liquid onto part of the towel almost gingerly. Without warning, Kenny grasps my kneecap to stabilize himself and leans forward, pressing the wet part of the towel onto my wound. I cry out in a raspy yell— tears well up in my eyes again. My left hand grips the mattress beside me with so much force my knuckles turn white.
He falters a bit at my cry, "Sit still." He grumbles. After I recollect myself, he wastes little time in resuming. Kenny removes the towel, placing it on the bed side table next to the hydrogen peroxide. He stares at the wound for a moment; it bubbles a sickly white. Him, the way he's sitting as still as a statue with his eyes flickering relentlessly over the dying bubbles, seems unsure, almost hesitant.
A tear falls from my eye as I stare down at the cut. A part of me is screaming and cursing my friends for leaving me here to have to go through this. After a long second, I notice Kenny looking up at me. He catches my eye.
"The ointment?" He asks all low and annoyed as if he isn't the reason we're here.
I nod, offering it to him whilst letting out a shaky sigh.
Kenny takes it from my hand gently, unscrewing the lid with a plasticky scraping sound. I slow my breathing to prepare for the next part. He digs two gloved fingers to scoop up the cream, then watches me for a moment, wordlessly making sure I know what is about to happen. I nod reluctantly, so he softly places two fingers at the bottom of my cut, smearing the cream upward. I grunt in pain, gritting my teeth firmly. He dips twice more, finishing the job swiftly.
He then stands up while firmly wiping his gloved fingers on a small towel. His fingers reach clumsily for the bandage and rip the package open.
Kenny holds out his empty left hand, "You need to stand." He says.
I nod once again, taking his hand and lifting myself up slowly. After a second of allowing me to balance myself, Kenny motions towards my shirt. "Lift your shirt—"
"Yeah." I whisper, grasping the sides of my shirt and lifting them to the top of my irritated gash.
Kenny gently wraps his arms around me, circling the bandage around my waist. He tucks the end behind my back firmly, stepping back to admire his medical work.
Why is he doing this? Is this pity? God, I feel pathetic. My friends leave me and a murderer takes over in their place? This can't actually be real.
"Lay down. I'll make you some food." Kenny says, backing away from me.
I nod absently in reply, and at this he lets himself back out.
I pause, looking at my surroundings. The light outside is beginning to grow darker.
My eyes shut, but don't open when I expect them to. In the back of my vision I see light, then a face. My father's face.
"You are alone in this house of bone.
Look into the cracks in the walls, hear the wind pooling through them.
Right now, it is silent. Right now, you are safe.
Fall into the bed and sleep while you still have the pleasure of doing so."
I open the sheets and creep into bed, resting my head on the soft pillow.
YOU ARE READING
What Remains
Horreur(Originally optimized for Google Docs, apologies for any mistakes.) When exploring any abandoned building, make sure you take into account both what is there, and what isn't! There SHOULD be: -You, AND a friend or two! Never go alone when exploring...
