Implode [edited version]

o7 implosion

[ o7 implosion ]

It would take someone a while to recover from something like that. Only, it had never happened.

Exodus found herself sitting upright in bed, soaked in sweat. The darkness that surrounded her was suffocating, and she leapt from her bed to turn on the light. Her room looked the same as it was when she’d fallen asleep after a cursory inspection. Homework was strewn over the foot of her bed, rucked up now from her probable tossing and turning in her sleep. The window by her bed was still firmly shut and everything else seemed to be in some sort of order.

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a nightmare so vivid, so bizarre. She breathed a shaking sigh and passed by the mirror in her room to return to bed, before sucking in sharply. She approached the mirror cautiously, not quite believing what she was seeing.

Laced over her side and arms were lacerations of a bright, angry red. They didn’t bleed, but stung when she lifted a sweaty palm to pat it. Her eyes were puffy and red, veins creeping around her irises. She leaned in further to examine it, but drew back shortly after, deciding against it. Her hair was a mess of tendrils, and when she squinted, she could just barely make out traces of her own blood. The braid must have gotten undone in her tossing, but she couldn’t explain what was that had decided to cut ribbons into her skin.

She swallowed thickly, and turned her gaze away from the mirror.

Horror covered her like the sheen of sweat stick to her skin, leaving her skin crawling and itching like a festering wound. She decided that the best course of action would be to rinse of the offending substance in the shower. She directed her gaze towards a clock and frowned when she noticed just how early she’d woken. The blaring red numbers marked three in the morning, and she doubted she’d be able to return to sleep. Not after what she’d just dreamt.

Her steps were lumbering and clipped, a stumbling dance towards her destination. One could hardly blame her, feeling the light-headed sensation of proposed blood loss and shaking off the waves of sleep and almost-deaths. Her temple throbbed for a moment, but she soon shook it off as she drew closer to the bathroom.

She proceeded to strip once the door was closed, humming softly as she waited for the water to heat up. A short glance at the mirror on the cabinet gave her another view of the gruesome leftovers of whatever had decided to attack her in her sleep. She dared not think of it as she slipped into the water, holding her breath as the hot liquid rolled over her.

Exodus paid no attention to the water changing from a transparent liquid to something red and warped. She closed her eyes before she could have the image ingrained in her mind, humming just a little louder. When she did open her eyes, she cast her gaze towards the ceiling, and attempted to avoid thought. Her tired mind made it easier, but that thick lump of trepidation in her throat wouldn’t let her forget.

It wouldn’t let her forget the creature had slit her throat and covered her in gashes almost identical to the ones she wore; certainly not letting her forget the silence that had followed, ringing in her ears. She had no chance of that. With a sigh, she closed her eyes once more and slowly drifted into oblivion.

When she awoke, it was half an hour later. Exodus, unaware of any passage of time besides the cooling of the water, rose refreshed and newly groggy. Going back to sleep seemed to be in order as she dressed slowly and returned to her room. She paused in the doorway, feeling something wrong—something off. Like a switch on a light, she was suddenly alert.

Her room could be considered neither neat nor messy. It was cluttered usually, as it still was, but everything was wrong. She could have sworn that her homework had been on her bed, not hurriedly placed on her desk. Her pencils were strewn about, a few even on the floor. They had always been the most cared for objects, aside from her sketchbooks. Those, too, had found a new home, and some had been opened up. They landed on old sketches, dark and depressing. Those must have been from when the torture of high school started.