Riley Brooks appears to be leading a charmed life on the outside. On the inside, she's spiraling as a result of a toxic relationship. Once the relationship comes to a tumultuous end, she loses very nearly everything, her sanity included. As an effor...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Everything was blackness. There was no light, no walls, and no floor. I couldn't move forward and I couldn't move back. There was nothing to ground me and nowhere to go. Only black.
Am I alive? I had to have been, as I was still capable of thought. And there was the fact that I was feeling a cold, pins and needles terror creep across my scalp and then shoot down my spine like a surge through a powerline. Do I still have my body? I lifted my arm and felt some relief at the sight of my pallid limb.
But then there was a crackling static sound and my arm flickered. I was holographic, and I was fading fast.
I sensed movement and my head shot up. About fifteen steps ahead, there was a tall, corvine figure with an oily, sleek back. Then it began to morph into something more anthropomorphic with discernible arms, legs and feet with footsteps that slowly retreated from me. The surprising grace in his smooth, aqueous movements was a stark contrast to his lanky form. There was a small light that reflected off his golden hair, the North Star in the pitch black. I chased after him and called his name, but he didn't turn. No matter how long I chased after him in that obscure, unmeasurable amount of "dream-time", I never got any closer.
Finally, he stopped, and I caught up to him rather quickly. I grabbed the arm of his leather jacket and he spun around. His face was cold, his eyes were black as pitch, and his mouth was set in a tight, solemn line.
His image shuddered and then he was Ryan.
Shocked, I stumbled backward and with the zap of a shorting circuit, he disappeared.
Complete blackness. Alone again.
A short distance away, a mahogany brown door began to materialize. Strangely, I recognized that door, and propelled myself forward.
I twisted the knob and opened it to see my mother sprawled out across our old kitchen tile. She was wearing a holey t-shirt and there was vomit in her curly hair. An empty vodka bottle lay on the tile beside her grey face.
A fourteen-year-old Tommy crouched at her side, wiping her mouth with a damp washcloth.
My mother moaned and stirred slightly, her eyes sliding back and forth behind closed lids. "Riley? Baby?" She croaked confusedly.
Tommy's head snapped up and he glared at me. "Get out, Riley."
The door slammed in my face.
I jiggled the handle, but it was now locked. My panicked fists banged on the door and then a window appeared in the center. Hesitantly, I peered inside to see Miles standing at the same bathroom counter at the party, a syringe in hand. He held it close to his face and flicked against it, tapping out the bubbles.
I battered my fists against the window and forced a scream through my lungs, but both actions were soundless.
An exultant grin spread across Miles' lips as rolled up his sleeve, exposing a plethora of tiny holes and weeping abscesses. With deft, experienced fingers, he slid the needle into the crook of his arm. Then he pulled the plunger back and watched the crimson fluid chase the seal up the barrel. I stared in muted horror as he pressed back down with a trembling finger.
