“Hell is empty and all the devils are here,” ~William Shakespeare
There are many things I don’t want to face in life. There are many things a lot of people don’t want to face in life. Then why do we face them? Because we have to? Or because without them we’d loose our gratitude. I like the second answer. I believe the first one. One of the many things I don’t want to face in life is school. Aside from the humiliation, bulling, and the awkwardness that is myself, it’s also where I get my worst “hallucinations”. The bus pulls up to the stop nearest to the school as many of my fellow “peers” noisily pour out. I close my book, The Poetry of Robert Frost, one of the original copies from 1969 sits neatly on my lap. I wait for the next stop to depart, to avoid, as my mother would call “socializing”, with other students.
Minuets later my stop arrives. I keep my head down as I de-bus. My laced boots step hard onto the wet pavement. I never recall it raining but the moist ground and green trees would suggest otherwise. I cross the street as the city bus pulls away from the curb. I have a few blocks of walking to do before I reach Orson City High school. Though this I far rather prefer.
“-No habitation meets the eye
Unless in the horizon rim,
Some halfway up the limestone wall,
That spot of black is not a stain
Or shadow, but a cavern hole-,”
I read as I walk. I like poetry, one of the things I do like to face in life. I like that instead of being forced to see a tale through one persons point of view through a paradox the author created that you must follow, for you have no other choice. You’re brought through an unknown story for unknown reasons where your own creativity is used.
I arrived at the school. Late. The front doors are locked, as per usual, but after the years of being late I’ve learned about the side door. Glances from students in the school have become easy to avoid. They unfortunately know me before I’ve met them. A buzzer on my phone go’s off just as I turn the school’s corner, this is unusual. So unusual I’d believe it to be a hallucination in itself. I check my phone, more eagerly than I’d like to admit, to be greeted by something that’s not a text, nor call, nor email or even an update. But a reminder to ‘take my pills’. The pills Ms. Red Clock, the physiatrist, prescribed to ‘fix’ me. I look at them, round and light in my hand. I don’t remember making the decision, but I crush the pills in my hand; revealing a white powder I pour onto the ground. I’m not crazy. I am not crazy. I refuse, I decline, I – I – demand! Not to be crazy! No matter how much I tell myself, no matter how much I try to believe myself, the pills will always say otherwise.
I watch the powder dance in the wind when I feel it. A sickening feeling I know all too well. No. No. Not here. Not now. I try and pull away from it but it pulls me back with a brutal force that brings me into a darkened state. I run up the back door stairs looking for a way out, any way out. I swing open the door to find a blood-covered hallway.
The door I entered from is non-existent now, just old wood covered in a deep blood. An unbarring smell lingers of rust and sour milk. The once school hallway now bares the becomingness of a funeral. I can see the doors at the other end of it, clearly. Too clearly. They’re closer than they should be. The ivory doors are clean, from blood I mean. Then like a trick of a hat a single drop of blood weaves it’s way down the right door leaving a trail of red. It hits the ground slowly, ever, so, slowly. The second it hits the ground a ghastly sound screams from the unknown, like metal trying to be ripped in half, as millions of drops of blood devour the once clean doors. The doors shriek and are moving closer, closer to me. Racing at uncontrollable speeds the blood-covered doors encroach closer and closer. 12 feet. 10 feet. 8 feet. 6 feet. 3 feet. I close my eyes. It’s not real. It’s not real. It’s not real. I sob to myself begging anyone who’s listening to make it stop, please! I open my eyes; the moving doors have come to a stop no more than a foot away from the wooden plank I entered from. It’s quiet, more than I’d like it to be. I can hear my own hyperventilating breaths as if I was plugging my ears. I pound at the doors, with all my strength, hitting them until my hands are raw and bruised. I scratch at them with whatever nail I have, desperately hoping to break it. I have to pull my hands back from the pain. They clench in fists near my chest, afraid of what’s happened to them. I take a deep breath, slowly uncurling my hands I can only so it so far until I physically cannot. Its hard to tell what they look like under all the blood from the door. I wipe the back of my hands onto my jeans, cleaning off my nails well enough to see them; the nail bed is presently shown followed by a ring of blood, my own blood. The beginning of my nails are rimed with dry blood, a dark dying rose like colour. Splinters line the outside of my hands like stitch work. I shift my weight uncomfortably in my shoes. I slimy sound echoes from my feet. I look down, lifting the arch of my left foot up to see the bottom of my shoe. I red slimy blood like substance shapes the bottom of my boot. I cringe but put my foot back; it falls in further than it should, making me knee deep in this red, stuff. My right foot slowly sings deeper and deeper in, impossible to pull out. I pull and pull nearly dislodging my hip in a pointless attempt to release my feet. I sink slowly into the blood like substance unable to stop. It starts at my knees. Its not real. Mid thighs. Its not real. Hips. Its not real. Pelvis. Its not real. Belly. Its not real. Ribs. Its not real. Chest. Its not real. Collar bone. Its not real. Neck. Its not real. I take a deep breath knowing what happens next. Head. Its not real.
The only think I can compare it to is peanut butter. This predicament I’m in. A panicked feeling of not knowing which way is up, or what to do. I swing my arms in an attempt to move. I don’t know if it worked for I don’t know if I moved or not. I move more hastily now, more panicked, in hopes of returning to the surface. Hands are clawing and thrashing at anything, while my legs petal and kick into emptiness. A predominant pain in my chest gets stronger as the lack of air in my lungs becomes more and more unbearable. Its not real. I try and believe but the pain is becoming more and more real by the second. My hands claw with a sad maximal force and I feel a cold sensation. It endowers my hand followed by my wrist and forearm. The chilling feeling crawls up my arms and the crown of my head. The feeling of air. A satisfying breath I take as I hold onto the stair railing. I hang there for a moment as grateful tears leak. I pull myself up and onto the stairs, collapsing onto the dirty old things. I never thought I’d be so happy to see them. I look back to see the doors I was caught between, but nothings there, just the same door entrance I came in; untouched, metal doors sit perfectly by themselves. I lie down and wait for it to be over. The sound of my own heavy breathing is the only company I have. Its okay. I'm okay. I look at the ceiling and wait for student to appear and for this to be done with. I continue to wait. And wait. But to no appeal do any students come into view. But I hear one. Yes I hear one! What sounds to be someone chewing with their mouth open bellows beyond my feet. I raise my neck, but do not rise. No student. No open mouth chewing. No. But an arm emerges from the blood looking slime. I wait for more of a body but nothing arises, just a drenched arm claws at me. The arm is vertical and slowly, but surely, moves closer and closer towards me. I scream and scramble, attempting to get up as the arm grabs at my foot. I shake it off and climb up the stairs, stopping to look back at it; the arm grabs hold of the railing and pulls itself up too, bringing up the rest of its corpse. A blood drenched corpse stands at the bottom of the stairs; shoulder length hair sits in clumps on the body, its head hanging low. It appears to be wearing a loose dress, almost like a nighty. Its head slowly raises slowing me its blood drenched holes for eyes. It looks at me through its non-existent eyes tilting its head ever so gently and slowly that I almost confuse it to be kind. Until it screams at me, showing me a mouth full of not teeth, but bloody strings of saliva. My stomach drops and I run as fast as I can up the rest of the stairs, it following me with a great speed. I reach the second floor in tears with the creature behind me, slowly loosing its pace. I run into the first open classroom; one of the bio rooms. I hide behind one of the tables, sheltering my head. I try and calm my breaths in fear of it finding me. I see it. It’s entering the room, slowly, scanning the room for me. Its steps are heavy and close. It approaches my table stopping so close that all I see are its feet.
“Its not real!” I scream, crying indefinitely.
The creature makes a growling sound grabbing at my back with its long nails.
“You’re not real! It’s not real! Its not real! Its not real!!!”
And I’m in class. My biology class, at my desk, alone. My hands rapped around my head, tears pouring down my face. The whole class is staring at me including the teacher. Everything’s backed to normal. I sit taking shaky breaths. Nobody makes a sound. I look around at the class, my so-called peers stair a judgmental look I know too well. Its over. I know this to be a lie from experience; ‘its over’. I look at my hands to find blood rimmed nails and splinters on the side of my hands. Its never over.
