FROM NO-INJURY POLICY (2012)
© 2011 - 2020 C.M. HUMPHRIES, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Nauseating strobes flash through the packed night club and break everyone down into static. My head spins as I try to focus on a blurred blond woman across from me on a curved leather bench. I watch her tap her neon-painted fingernails along the table.
With one hand running along the side of my head, she makes me recoil even before she flashes her cracked grin. This ghost of a woman digs her nails into her face and peels down her flesh. Rather than cartilage or tissue, underneath her skin is a deep blackness with only her eyes and bone structure to reveal.
Some sudden change in motion, I’m to my feet and stumbling backwards across the sticky floor, which is resonant of a good time gone wrong. She stays in her seat, sipping on an Amaretto Sour. She sets her drink on the table and lets the liquid run along her jawbone and out of her throat. Rummaging through her handbag, the blond woman pulls out a pocket mirror and turns it at me.
Her sharp nails clench my wrist and pull me closer, until I can see my reflection. From my forehead to the bridge of my nose, my flesh melts away, developing into a dark abyss much like her own.
Akin to a knife in my chest, a stabbing pain flares my lungs with each rapid breath. I spring upright in my bed at the sound of a loud rapping. My heartbeat echoes around the room; the sound is thumping in my eardrums, as if it derives from my head.
Deep breaths through my nostrils, deep into my lungs, and out of my mouth, I focus in on silencing my erratic sounds. My heartbeat becomes nothing more than an unfamiliar drum in the background. I hear the knocking again.
A curious thought crosses my mind: What if I pretend to be asleep; will it go away? Parents tell their children if they sleep, the monsters will go away. Then there’s Santa Claus and Freddy Krueger.
Twisting the sheets around my limbs, I roll over to face the brunette twins lying next to me, asleep. Knock, knock, knock.
With one hand running along the side of my head, she makes me recoil even before she flashes her cracked grin. This ghost of a woman digs her nails into her face and peels down her flesh. Rather than cartilage or tissue, underneath her skin is a deep blackness with only her eyes and bone structure to reveal.
Some sudden change in motion, I’m to my feet and stumbling backwards across the sticky floor, which is resonant of a good time gone wrong. She stays in her seat, sipping on an Amaretto Sour. She sets her drink on the table and lets the liquid run along her jawbone and out of her throat. Rummaging through her handbag, the blond woman pulls out a pocket mirror and turns it at me.
Her sharp nails clench my wrist and pull me closer, until I can see my reflection. From my forehead to the bridge of my nose, my flesh melts away, developing into a dark abyss much like her own.
Akin to a knife in my chest, a stabbing pain flares my lungs with each rapid breath. I spring upright in my bed at the sound of a loud rapping. My heartbeat echoes around the room; the sound is thumping in my eardrums, as if it derives from my head.
Deep breaths through my nostrils, deep into my lungs, and out of my mouth, I focus in on silencing my erratic sounds. My heartbeat becomes nothing more than an unfamiliar drum in the background. I hear the knocking again.
A curious thought crosses my mind: What if I pretend to be asleep; will it go away? Parents tell their children if they sleep, the monsters will go away. Then there’s Santa Claus and Freddy Krueger.
Twisting the sheets around my limbs, I roll over to face the brunette twins lying next to me, asleep. Knock, knock, knock.
