Not really a short story really, beginning of one maybe. Anyways. I assume people put things like this up every once in awhile, so I thought I might as well do the same.
Started writing this for school, realized it wasn't going anywhere, scrapped it, thought of it again later and wrote it again.
So, tell me what you think, and please, don't be polite, beat the bastard into submission. I like to learn, so I like me some constructive criticism.
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Bolt upright in bed, beads of cold sweat stuck to her brow, letting out breaths in small puffs. Her eyes creep along the dark corners of the ceiling, hands grabbing and releasing fistfuls of the comforter. It seems as though a cold breeze is circling her, keeping any warmth at bay, though sweat continues to propagate on her face. As her mind shakes off the remaining shrouds of sleep, her hands relax and her breath slows, eyes stopping their search for whatever might be lurking in the darkness. The cold leaves, letting an uncomfortable warmth become apparent. She sighs, dropping her face into an open palm, eyes shut tight, thumb and index finger rubbing her temples.
A sound escapes her throat, sort a shuddering squeak, it may have been intended to have meaning, but she can't be sure. She does learn her throat is dry though, and she slides her way out from under the comforter, feet softly thumping down, toes wiggling through the carpet. She makes her way around the bed and heads for the door, uncomfortably aware of the inky blackness covering her apartment, not impaired at all by what little light is trying to break in through the window. She tries to avoid obstacles by memory, but the way she moves things around as she needs them results in several awkward collisions. She finds the door, and reaches out for the handle but only succeeds in rubbing her hand uselessly up and down the peeling and splintering wood. After what she assumes to be far too long she finds the handle on the other side of the door, confusing her slightly.
She shakes it off as the last strands of sleep stubbornly refusing to fall away and continues into the hallway. Or maybe she's just genuinely confused, she doesn't really know, each hour and minute has seemed disjointed recently. It's not the first time she's had that dream, or that type of dream, and it's not the first time she's woken up at God-knows-what-time-it-is in the morning and stumbled about the house trying to get her bearings. It's not the first time she's walked down this hall to her apartment's bathroom, shadows swirling organically around her. It's not the first time she's slammed her foot into that chair, and it's not the first time she's directed that string of curses towards it. For the past week, or maybe month, she's been having these dreams, the kind of dreams where she can't tell if she's awake or dreaming, and when she open her eyes she can't tell if she's woken up or just fallen asleep. Days and nights have blended, work and sleep have blurred, daily life may have been taking place entirely in her apartment for the past week (or month), or maybe it's only been one night. She doesn't remember the last time she ate, she knows what it was, but she's not hungry.
The microwave clock appears hanging in the blackness through the kitchen doorway, and she concentrates on it until the numbers make sense in her head. Four thirty. She groans, realizing she has only three more hours of sleep until her soul crushing occupation will drag her out from her home and into bleakness of daily life. Head hanging, she knows she won't be able to get any more sleep in, her heads already spiteful towards her for having to be up and working to make sure she doesn't smash her head into a wall. Glancing once more at the clock she notices she must have been looking at it through a haze of rare optimism, as it actually reads five thirty. She shakes her head as she continues towards the bathroom, her internal clock is unwound and shattered, and for some reason her eyes can't pick up the pale blue light that usually starts streaming into the apartment by now. She numbly thinks to herself that it's as if the shadows and confusion from her dreams are spilling out of her mind and into the physical, though now her waking and sleeping hours are feeling more and more alike.
She makes it to the bathroom door, finds the knob reassuringly on the correct side, and walks over to the counter. She fumbles for a cup, knocking over the one bundling up her toothbrushes. She idly wonders why she needs so many toothbrushes as she picks up the glass and tries to find the sink. After a brief period of not having much luck she realizes it could help to turn the light on. She rubs her hand along the wall until she finds the switch, then, squinting in preparation for the explosion of light, flicks the switch. Momentary blindness as the shadows are overwhelmed and dissipate, replaced by the flickering light cast by the buzzing overhead bulb. She opens her eyes and twists the faucet, issuing forth a long squeal. She watches as the water tumbles into the cup, bubbling and spitting, and feels decidedly uncomfortable. She stops the water and looks into the cup, seeing her distorted reflection in the rippling water. Something doesn?t feel right, a cold breeze seems to flow around her, and she can almost feel her hair being lightly blown about. Cold sweat begins beading on her brow, and she stares deeper into the cup. She can see herself plainly now, looking like hell with deep bags under her eyes and hair hanging limply around her neck, and she can see the ceiling light flickering, and the mirror. Something in the mirror.
She snaps her head up, looking into the mirror and over her shoulder. Her eyes flick across reflection and lock onto the deep shadow in the corner of the room. The shadow is oily black, blatantly defying the unquestionably active bulb. She stares into the mirror at the darkened corner, rock solid, fingers white around the cup. The shadow is thick, as if it's solid, though she's sure she can see it follow the contours of the wall, yet it has an inky substance to it, slightly refracting the light that should have been removing it entirely. Her hand grips tighter, shaking the cup, some of the water sloshing over the sides into the sink. She sucks in a stuttering breath as the top of the shadow begins to shift, moving smoothly upwards. The sides begin to expand slightly, an almost ovular shape is rising from the top of it. Somehow she knows it's looking up at her, and her eyes instinctively lock onto the rising top. She drops the cup, putting both hands atop the counter to steady herself, she's trembling, and her hair twirls as a decidedly chilled gust circles her. Yet she's not afraid. Anticipation for something she can't explain broils through her body, something familiar, something that she hasn't felt for along time. Something that hasn't felt her for along time. She stares at it, and even before they appear, she's already seeing them, and looking into her past. Yellow slits appear, and stare into her, and into their past.
Started writing this for school, realized it wasn't going anywhere, scrapped it, thought of it again later and wrote it again.
So, tell me what you think, and please, don't be polite, beat the bastard into submission. I like to learn, so I like me some constructive criticism.
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
Bolt upright in bed, beads of cold sweat stuck to her brow, letting out breaths in small puffs. Her eyes creep along the dark corners of the ceiling, hands grabbing and releasing fistfuls of the comforter. It seems as though a cold breeze is circling her, keeping any warmth at bay, though sweat continues to propagate on her face. As her mind shakes off the remaining shrouds of sleep, her hands relax and her breath slows, eyes stopping their search for whatever might be lurking in the darkness. The cold leaves, letting an uncomfortable warmth become apparent. She sighs, dropping her face into an open palm, eyes shut tight, thumb and index finger rubbing her temples.
A sound escapes her throat, sort a shuddering squeak, it may have been intended to have meaning, but she can't be sure. She does learn her throat is dry though, and she slides her way out from under the comforter, feet softly thumping down, toes wiggling through the carpet. She makes her way around the bed and heads for the door, uncomfortably aware of the inky blackness covering her apartment, not impaired at all by what little light is trying to break in through the window. She tries to avoid obstacles by memory, but the way she moves things around as she needs them results in several awkward collisions. She finds the door, and reaches out for the handle but only succeeds in rubbing her hand uselessly up and down the peeling and splintering wood. After what she assumes to be far too long she finds the handle on the other side of the door, confusing her slightly.
She shakes it off as the last strands of sleep stubbornly refusing to fall away and continues into the hallway. Or maybe she's just genuinely confused, she doesn't really know, each hour and minute has seemed disjointed recently. It's not the first time she's had that dream, or that type of dream, and it's not the first time she's woken up at God-knows-what-time-it-is in the morning and stumbled about the house trying to get her bearings. It's not the first time she's walked down this hall to her apartment's bathroom, shadows swirling organically around her. It's not the first time she's slammed her foot into that chair, and it's not the first time she's directed that string of curses towards it. For the past week, or maybe month, she's been having these dreams, the kind of dreams where she can't tell if she's awake or dreaming, and when she open her eyes she can't tell if she's woken up or just fallen asleep. Days and nights have blended, work and sleep have blurred, daily life may have been taking place entirely in her apartment for the past week (or month), or maybe it's only been one night. She doesn't remember the last time she ate, she knows what it was, but she's not hungry.
The microwave clock appears hanging in the blackness through the kitchen doorway, and she concentrates on it until the numbers make sense in her head. Four thirty. She groans, realizing she has only three more hours of sleep until her soul crushing occupation will drag her out from her home and into bleakness of daily life. Head hanging, she knows she won't be able to get any more sleep in, her heads already spiteful towards her for having to be up and working to make sure she doesn't smash her head into a wall. Glancing once more at the clock she notices she must have been looking at it through a haze of rare optimism, as it actually reads five thirty. She shakes her head as she continues towards the bathroom, her internal clock is unwound and shattered, and for some reason her eyes can't pick up the pale blue light that usually starts streaming into the apartment by now. She numbly thinks to herself that it's as if the shadows and confusion from her dreams are spilling out of her mind and into the physical, though now her waking and sleeping hours are feeling more and more alike.
She makes it to the bathroom door, finds the knob reassuringly on the correct side, and walks over to the counter. She fumbles for a cup, knocking over the one bundling up her toothbrushes. She idly wonders why she needs so many toothbrushes as she picks up the glass and tries to find the sink. After a brief period of not having much luck she realizes it could help to turn the light on. She rubs her hand along the wall until she finds the switch, then, squinting in preparation for the explosion of light, flicks the switch. Momentary blindness as the shadows are overwhelmed and dissipate, replaced by the flickering light cast by the buzzing overhead bulb. She opens her eyes and twists the faucet, issuing forth a long squeal. She watches as the water tumbles into the cup, bubbling and spitting, and feels decidedly uncomfortable. She stops the water and looks into the cup, seeing her distorted reflection in the rippling water. Something doesn?t feel right, a cold breeze seems to flow around her, and she can almost feel her hair being lightly blown about. Cold sweat begins beading on her brow, and she stares deeper into the cup. She can see herself plainly now, looking like hell with deep bags under her eyes and hair hanging limply around her neck, and she can see the ceiling light flickering, and the mirror. Something in the mirror.
She snaps her head up, looking into the mirror and over her shoulder. Her eyes flick across reflection and lock onto the deep shadow in the corner of the room. The shadow is oily black, blatantly defying the unquestionably active bulb. She stares into the mirror at the darkened corner, rock solid, fingers white around the cup. The shadow is thick, as if it's solid, though she's sure she can see it follow the contours of the wall, yet it has an inky substance to it, slightly refracting the light that should have been removing it entirely. Her hand grips tighter, shaking the cup, some of the water sloshing over the sides into the sink. She sucks in a stuttering breath as the top of the shadow begins to shift, moving smoothly upwards. The sides begin to expand slightly, an almost ovular shape is rising from the top of it. Somehow she knows it's looking up at her, and her eyes instinctively lock onto the rising top. She drops the cup, putting both hands atop the counter to steady herself, she's trembling, and her hair twirls as a decidedly chilled gust circles her. Yet she's not afraid. Anticipation for something she can't explain broils through her body, something familiar, something that she hasn't felt for along time. Something that hasn't felt her for along time. She stares at it, and even before they appear, she's already seeing them, and looking into her past. Yellow slits appear, and stare into her, and into their past.