Stitches

1.7

It was wrong, all wrong, everything felt wrong. The doorknob was cold—not the normal chill of metal but an unnatural, biting cold that seeped into my bones, electric and unforgiving. The air was thick, suffocating, like a held breath waiting to exhale. Every step I took seemed to echo, the sound swallowed by a silence too heavy, until all that was left was the hollow silence of the hallway. The smell was wrong. Bitter and metallic, like iron left out in the rain too long, the sharp tang clawing up the back of my throat. It was wrong, just all wrong.

I didn't call out. Not a whisper, not a breath, not a sound. Somehow, I already knew there'd be no answer. I'd known, in that strange way you know when a storm is coming because the clouds bruise dark at the edges, or when the forest quiets, every leaf holding still, or how the ocean pulls back just before a wave crashes, gathering itself for the inevitable. That kind of knowing—the kind you feel deep in your bones, the one you don't question but brace against, waiting for impact.

In the back room, her body lay across the bed, her head tilted in a way that should have looked like sleep but didn't. The light through the dusty window slanted across her face, illuminating the strange stillness that had settled over her body, the barely-there blue at the edge of her lips, skin washed out and eyes half-closed, staring past me into some place she couldn't reach. I didn't move, couldn't move, as if doing so would somehow bring the walls crumbling in, as if moving might disturb whatever fragile balance held the moment in place. Like a painting frozen in time, preserving everything that has been and would be into this singular moment. I wouldn't break that. 

Her hand dangled off the bed, like if she had fallen asleep holding a book, but her fingers ghosted above a trail of white powder. I couldn't move like someone had nailed my feet to the wooden floor, every heartbeat loud and jarring, filling the silence with a deafening throb that somehow felt louder than the stillness. A thin trail of vomit marked the sheets, dripping to a pooling mass on the floor. It was wrong, all wrong, her hair matted and tangled in it, her hair was all wrong, she always did her hair, her hair was always perfect, her hair was like golden sunlight and now it's all messed up. She wouldn't have allowed that. I need to fix her hair. She'd want me to fix her hair. 

The lights pulsed on, red and relentless, bathing the club in waves of crimson that felt too bright, too raw, like an open wound spilling into the dark. I wanted to look away, to close my eyes and shut it all out, but even then, the memories lingered like ghosts at the edges of my vision, creeping in with each flash, each hollow beat of the music that thudded through my veins. The club's pulsing bass felt like it was thundering through my chest, rattling my ribcage in a way that made my stomach turn. Around me, people moved in a blur of shadowed figures, their laughter high-pitched and jagged, cutting through the air, the bass grinding beneath it like the guttural roar of some distant storm. 

The scent of sweat mingled with the stale stench of spilled drinks and cigarette smoke, thickening the air to something almost tangible. Yet, all I could breathe in was the phantom of that metallic tang, bitter and piercing, the smell of blood mingling with the perfume of rot and decay. I clenched my fists, nails biting into my palms, but it wasn't enough to shake the feeling that the floor was slipping beneath me, that any moment, I'd turn, and she'd be there, lying still and silent like a warning. The whole room felt wrong—garish red lights flashing, cutting through the dimness like warning signals, casting shadows that distorted the people around me into faceless, moving shapes. I blinked, and they almost looked like figures at her bedside, silent, unseeing.

The flickering red lights traced long, twisting shadows across the walls, elongating every face into something unrecognizable, ghoulish—distorted reflections of the night I'd walked into that room, of the hollow eyes that had stared past me into something I could never reach. The girl beside me swayed to the music, blissfully unaware, her laughter a knife in the thick air, jolting me back as I tried to ground myself, to stay anchored in the present. But every flash of light seemed to drag me deeper, every red burst pulling me back to that darkened bedroom.