Porcelain Skin (NOW ON AMAZON KU)

25. Cockroaches

I'm seated at a large, oak table. It extends across the length of the dim room and disappears into the darkness that cloaks the outer edges of the hall. I'm completely alone, but I can hear the echoes of my own breathing vibrating around the empty space. There's a heaviness that has settled around me, creating a twisted, clawing fear in my gut.

I slowly glance around at my surroundings. The walls are bare except for a few cracks that snake their way from ground to ceiling. The floor is made up of concrete bricks that have become uneven and jagged with age, and the ceiling extends upwards to a small skylight that does very little to illuminate the space around me.

I have a sense that I'm being watched, but there's no sign of life other than myself and the dark cloud that hovers just out of reach. There's something in there; I can feel it. I stare into it, willing whatever is there to have the courage to step out. My spine tenses as ice scurries up my back.

There's a faint scratching noise as if something is being dragged across the floor. I'm reminded of horror movies where the murderer is pulling an axe behind him, and my throat closes up. I don't dare move, and barely breathe, so as not to draw any attention to myself. It doesn't dawn on me that I happen to be sitting in the only source of light. It's like a beacon announcing my location.

I'm straining to detect any sort of unusual movement within the shadows, but everything is still. Too still. And then I see it, a sort of separation. Whatever it is, it's attempting to free itself from the murky arms that have tangled themselves around it, until it becomes a distinguished shape of its own.

It's oddly familiar, giving me a sense of deja vu. The fact that I recognize each distinct movement of this shape has my fingers curling into themselves, and my knees weakening. It moves closer until suddenly I can make out the form of a man emerging from the black fog. He is no longer one with the gloom but is now a separate entity. His movements are sluggish, yet stiff. As if something is hindering his progress.

His steps falter, but he never falls. His eyes are trained straight ahead, holding the weight of regret. His shoulders stick out, trembling with the burden they carry. Not a physical burden, but emotional - mental.

His lips are moving, but no sound is heard. Though I can make out particular features hidden in his saggy, wrinkled skin, I can't grasp why he seems so familiar. The look in his eyes has me trembling with emotions of my own, a gut-wrenching sorrow that seems to flow out of him and blend with that of the black fog swirling around him.

He takes another step towards me, and the light catches the shimmer of something silver near his feet. My eyes are drawn down as he attempts another step but comes to an abrupt halt. I see them now. Chains. They're wrapped around his ankles, dragging across the rugged, uneven ground.

Though I can't hear his words, I can understand him. He's begging, pleading for a chance to start over, to do things the right way. He's screaming into the stillness, resembling a crazy man who speaks to the unseen around him.

And then his dark eyes zero in on my own, and the hatred emanating from them has me doubling over. The scars that once drew fresh blood still ache and the steel look he's pointing at me is like a dagger cutting new wounds. He's wordlessly yelling his regret at me. He made a mistake. It never should have been him. I shouldn't have let it ever happen. He's wishing it had been me instead.

I'm choking as I try to scream, but like him, no sound is uttered. My mouth is just an empty cave as I cry silently. He doesn't hear me. He doesn't understand what I'm saying. His shoulders drop further as his gaze sharpens. And then, as if he's given up the fight, he's yanked from his feet and sucked into the blackness, the sorrow and pain evaporating with him.