SCRATCH

Part 1 - Act 1

Dark orange and maroon flames twisted together in a wild and terrifying dance, climbing higher and higher as they did so. They greedily licked at the walls, the outdated wallpaper bubbling and peeling away, as if retreating from the flames. The room's decor, from the 1960s blackout curtains, patterned comforters, and frilly pillows, fed the inferno, all of it engulfed by the fire's many thick tongues. Thick black smoke swallowed whatever light the flames created, turning the room black and red. The scene rapidly became obscured and hazy through the smoke and heat. Beds, nightstands, tables and chairs were now just fuzzy, charred figures with dark red auras.

The raging fire builds and builds, so loud it dampens the sound of the building crumbling around it. Debris falls from the ceiling, swallowed by the fire below and erupting into sparks. Somewhere behind the flames, a shadowy figure emerged. It stood up as if unfurling itself before looming large and menacing in the middle of the room. Noise from the fire grew into a deafening cacophony and suddenly the figure lunged forward.

***

Nicky's eyes wrenched open, waking with a sharp and desperate gasp and jolted upright, grasping the sheets tightly. The violent action made the bed beneath her rattle, the wooden frame creaking under pressure. Soft, white moonlight peaked between the opaque curtains of the bedroom window, lighting her face. The green gem necklace hanging off her neck glinted against the moonlight, as did the beads of sweat on her forehead. Steadying her breathing, she braced herself against the wall beside her bed with her left hand. With the other, she wiped her brow. She pulled the bed sheets back exposing the rest of her sweat-drenched skin to the cool air, with nothing but her thin nightshirt to protect it, and shuddered violently.

I'll need to change the sheets, she thought glumly, running a hand over the fabric, feeling how damp they had become. Turning her head towards the bedside table, she spied a retro, digital clock which, with pale, red digits, blinked 3:33. Nicole groaned softly. No point going back to sleep now, she figured.

Nicky climbed out of bed, flinching as her bare feet made contact with the cold, hard floorboards. Across from her stood an old, wooden desk; a relic that had been there before she had moved in. The desk had been nestled against the wall between her bedroom door and a standalone wardrobe; another remnant from the previous owners. Books and binders, arranged in order and book-ended by a pair of novelty mugs filled with pens, sat atop the desk's top. Hanging above the desk was a large cork pin board that sported a calendar, pinned with notes, reminders, and bills. Elsewhere on the board were clippings of recipes, flattering report cards, certificates, and a photo of Nicky standing outside a navy blue food truck. Perched on the desk's accompanying chair were a set of neatly folded clothes, she had thoughtfully prepared hours before. She grabbed the outfit and headed towards the bathroom.

Cautiously, she opened her door, wary of its squeaky hinges. Stepping out into the hallway, she had to wait for her eyes to adjust before taking a couple more steps to the bathroom. Now standing on icy cold tiles, she fumbled with the switch beside the door, flicking it upwards. Warm light filled the room and spilled out into the hallway. From the other end of the hall came the sound of snoring. There, her housemate slept, his door wide open, allowing the guttural snorts and snores to echo in her direction. Nicky peered around the corner of the bathroom door, staring into his room. She could barely make out the young man sleeping, belly-down, on his unmade bed. Specks of light reflected off the orange sequinned dress shirt he was wearing, having not changed his clothes after returning from the club hours earlier.

With the bathroom door now shut behind her, Nicky peeled off her damp night shirt and shorts and tossed them on the floor. They landed against the tiles with a slight slap. Turning the faucet, water sputtered out of the tarnished brass shower head, taking a minute or two to warm up. Once under the shower stream, she let the water cascade over her, standing there quietly with her eyes closed. After a moment or two, it suddenly struck her that she had been holding her breath. Reflexively, she gasped and a hand rose to her throat. It ached, feeling almost as if she had been smoking.