Devils and Angels

iv. blind with fear

w h e l v e

to bury something deep; to hide

▬▬▬▬▬

GOOSEBUMPS CRAWLED UP MY FLESH, and I drew the blankets around my body, distracting myself from the film. 

Archie seemed oblivious to the fear that pierced my skin and sewed my lips shut, though he was curled up next to me, the eerie glow of the TV screen flickering in his chocolate eyes as he watched it with intent fixation. 

Nothing seemed to stir in the shadowed silence of his house, not even his body, turned to stone with his hand tucked beneath his chin and his posture relaxed, barely audible breathing steady, soft husks that merged with the palpitations of heartbeats slamming like a bass drum, projected on the silver screen.

My eyes washed over him in envy, because while I had consistently been described as a lot of things, brave had never been one of them, least not while horror films were concerned.

"Archie," I hissed, capturing his attention immediately. Since last night, Ayden's confession had weighed on my mind, like bruised, bloody knuckles beating my brain to a pulp. "Did you hear about Ayden?"

He tore his eyes away from the screen and nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "He has a girlfriend. She's coming here."

"When did you find out?" I asked, and he exhaled, a rush of air escaping his lips.

"Last night. I was the last to know." His fingers dwindled on his knee, and he sighed. "Feels like betrayal."

"I know what you mean," I agreed, but he shook his head.

"You don't, sucker." His head lolled back onto the sofa, obscuring any view of the expression on his hard, blank features. "You have no idea."

Neither do you, I thought, but I nodded regardless. When he didn't offer any elaboration beyond that, and I didn't prompt him, I turned my eyes back to the screen. 

Blood drenched the camera, drenched the tiles; smeared scarlet over her face and lips. Her hands shook violently; slippery, mechanical fingers grasping onto a pretentious knife-blade and stabbing the air in front of her, the reek of fear filling her green eyes. 

Silence swamped the atmosphere. Her breathing became loud and heavy and indiscreet, and her footsteps were slow, hesitant, clicking heels across a marble floor. The knife dropped to her side, blood-stained blade in blood-tangled fabric, lost in the swathes of it all, because her skirts shook, with every movement she made. 

Darkness began to follow, creeping in her wake, steeping the way she came in merciless shadows. Fingers of ink curled up her legs, stained her dress black, dashed over her lips like swipes of black paint marking their territory on her life, claiming each of her pained, rapid breaths. Black began to bleed from her eyes and char her hair; began to twist and writhe on her fair, marred skin.

Then, the lights went out.

I heard a slam. 

A blood-chilling scream that pierced the air. 

I couldn't see a thing. 

The world lurched sideways, forward and backward, like a earthquake in my eyeballs, and pain―mindless, merciless, exploded in my body like a last call to life. 

I opened my eyes, with no recollection of when they'd closed, and when I did, the comforting sound of maniacal laughter filled my ears.

I groaned.