Practice (Short Stories)

Cold

Cold. You're cold, so cold you wonder if you're dead. But if you were dead, your fingers and toes wouldn't be numb and painful, right? You probably wouldn't be damp, lying on some squishy surface, the crisp air so still its eerie. Surely the simple task of breathing wouldn't hurt so much. There wouldn't be frozen tears stuck to your cheeks. Right?

You open your eyes slowly, your eyelashes painfully pulling as they separate from each other. You see trees and tiny bits of a black, starry sky. You turn your head to look around, assessing the moss you're lying on, the trees all around you, the smell of dirt. You sit up painfully, your bones aching with the effort. Where are you? How long have you been here? Why does your body hurt so much? Questions race around your head and you shake it to get rid of them.

Its then that you realize someone's watching you.  You have nothing to back this up but your own instinct, of course, but this feeling is stronger than you've ever felt it. You look around frantically, searching for whoever it is. Your head starts throbbing from the sudden movement and you bring your hand to your forehead, pulling it away when you feel something sticky. You look at your hand in the limited light peeking through the trees above, seeing what appears to be blood. You're bleeding, hopefully not too badly. Although, it couldn't really get any worse, could it?

You take a deep breath and try to calm down before searching the pockets of your jeans. You pull out a piece of worn paper and unfold it.

        Dear beautiful,
You caught my eye the first time we met. Your hair, your eyes, your smile. I loved everything about you, but you were so perfect, so unattainable. It took a long time to build up the courage to do  this, but I think I'm finally ready. Go to the forest behind the school tonight at 12 and follow the yellow ribbons. I want to show you something special, almost as special as you.
- Anonymous

The memory of that evening comes back to you immediately.
You had found the note in your locker earlier and, being too curious for your own good, decided to go. You had to know who it was.

You glance at the clock before quietly getting up. You quickly change into your favorite distressed blue jeans and a tight black crop top. You pull a white sweatshirt over your head and slip on your tennis shoes, grabbing your bag before heading to your window.

You carefully open your window and slip out, grabbing onto the tree in your yard and climbing down, cursing under your breath as a branch scratches your cheek. You jump the last foot to the ground and pray no one heard you.

Looking around and finding the coast clear, you start walking to your highschool which only takes a minute or two. You stay in the shadows as you walk around the big brick building, using the flashlight in your pocket to light the way. You spot a small yellow ribbon tied around a tree, another one a few feet away. Smiling to yourself, you follow the ribbons.

After about ten minutes you assume, you reach a small pond, a blanket lying next to it with a picnic basket and some white roses. The small area is lit up with electric lanterns hanging from a few of the nearby tree branches.

"Alright, I've played your game. I'm here. Now come out and show me who you are." You say, ignoring the slight uneasiness in your stomach.

"I can't, darling. The game is not over yet. First take the flowers, they're for you. Your favorite, white roses." a voice sounds from somewhere around you, though you can't figure out where. You walk over to the roses and pick them up, sniffing them. You inhale their scent, smiling to yourself.

Everything goes black.

Your eyes go wide and you look around frantically, finding your flashlight in the pocket of your sweatshirt. You turn if on and wave it around, daring whoever it is to step into the light. You calm yourself and stand up slowly but turn suddenly when you feel a presence behind you. You drop your flashlight and try to scream at the man now a few inches from your face, but find that you're frozen with fear.

His chiseled face looks only a few years older than you as he twists his mouth into a wicked smile and holds his knife up to trace your face lightly, barely touching you.

"Run."

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Authors note

I do have more ideas for this, lemme know if you'd like more! This is the first in my book of practice writing. I'd love some constructive criticism! I'm not sure how I feel about the POV, but lemme know what you think.