At that moment, as every detail sprang forth with a clarity that was almost painful, time itself seemed to falter, in almost stuttering manner.
The beautiful woman's fangs glinted menacingly in the dim light, her mouth and lips smeared with the scarlet hue of fresh blood. Her tattered clothing hung precariously from her frame, barely concealing a body as sinful as it was horrifying. With a small pale hand tipped with viciously sharp nails, she reached out as if to snatch his very soul. But beneath the volcanic rage that twisted her features into a grotesque mask, he caught a glimpse of something inexplicable in her eyes—a flicker of fear. It seemed wholly out of place.
And then, her nails dug deep into his chest, and he thought no more. The pain that surged through him was like a white-hot blaze, scorching him senseless and leaving him reeling with agony. Her nails tore through his skin and clothing with cruel ease, carving deep furrows across his front with enough force to send him stumbling backward in a dark spray of blood that hit the wall and shelves beside them.
With a yelp of pain, his back slammed against the unforgiving surface of a supply shelf, the impact rattling his bones and jolting his senses. In that instant, something shifted within him as if a switch had been flipped, and his mind began to retreat into a place of raw survival instinct. The complexities of the situation fell away, leaving only the unshakable truth that he was trapped in a room with someone who wanted to kill him. The absurdity of it all, the questioning of his own sanity, had no meaning in the face of this mortal danger. The only thing that mattered was that he was alone, and no one was coming to help.
As the subconscious realization of his dire situation took hold, Emerson felt a subtle yet profound shift in his very being. For the first time in his life, he found himself staring death squarely in the face. Surprisingly, he found himself ready to fight tooth and nail to survive, ignoring the debilitating fear gripping his insides with an icy fist. He was determined to do everything in his power to live through this.
Despite the overwhelming agony burning in his chest, Emerson's instincts kicked into overdrive, fueled by a surge of adrenaline that drowned out the woman's howling. His senses sharpened, and the rhythm of his heartbeat pounded like a primal drum, driving the pain to the back of his mind and replacing it with a single-minded focus on survival. His pupils narrowed to pinpricks, honing his vision to a razor's edge. In a single swift, fluid motion, he evaded the woman's slashing claws. He had no idea how he'd done it; it was as if some instinct had taken over, guiding his movements with a preternatural grace he'd never known he had. But it wasn't enough. Not even close.
Just as Emerson dodged the woman's claws, the sound of shearing metal screeched above his head, warning of imminent danger. Before he could react, a deluge of boxes and random supplies rained down from above in a loud cascade of chaos and confusion. It saved his life.
The woman grunted as one of the large boxes smashed into her forehead. In that split second, he assessed his options and quickly realized that escaping through the door behind her wasn't viable. With no time to waste, he spun around and shoulder-checked the wobbling supply shelf behind him. A searing pain screamed through his shoulder and chest, but he refused to let it slow him down. Ignoring the icy-hot, sticky sensation soaking the front of his scrubs, he pressed forward, his willpower greater than any physical pain.
Suffering was good. Suffering meant he was still alive.
Emerson's weight caused the shelf to groan and scrape across the sheet vinyl flooring, its back edge tilting backward until inertia took over. With a loud crash, the sound of shattering glass and clattering metal filled the room, echoing off the walls like chaotic percussion. Despite the noise, Emerson kept his focus as he stumbled back, shielding his face from the flying debris. He regained his footing and immediately launched himself forward, scrambling over the collapsed shelving. Clear bins scattered everywhere, and he blindly threw grab bags filled with blankets and sterilizers behind him.
His heart pounded like a jackhammer inside his chest as he hurled himself over the edge of the final shelving unit and crashed to the floor in a sprawled heap. He lay there for a moment, gasping for breath, his body aching and trembling from the impact.
Then, a primal sound erupted from deep within his chest, a guttural grunt that echoed through the storeroom. Every muscle in his abdomen seized up, contracting and spasming in protest. His arms and legs were awash in searing pain, the brunt of the impact absorbed by his elbows and knees. But he knew, with a certainty born of desperation, that staying still meant certain death. With gritted teeth and a low shout of pain, he forced himself to focus past the overwhelming pain, ignoring the protests of his aching body. He started moving, a slow and agonizing crawl on his forearms.
The woman's snarling, savage, and feral sounds echoed in his ears. Each labored breath was punctuated by the scratching and scraping against metal and smooth plastic surfaces. He felt the impact of the shifting shelves as she, too, scrambled and stumbled over the collapsed structures.
Without warning, he felt something rough and unyielding grab hold of the sole of his shoe; his heart leaped into his throat.
Emerson reflexively lashed out with the same foot and hit something soft. The next kick produced a wet crunch.
Turning back at the sound, he saw the woman very close to his heels, her once-cute nose now a bloody, crooked mush. Black blood slowly dripped to the floor from her chin. Emerson’s pupils shrank as every instinct screamed at him to keep running. But before he could force himself to move, his mind froze in disbelief as he witnessed something impossible.
The woman’s nose began shifting beneath the skin, the grotesque noise of grinding bone and popping sinew filling the small storage room.
Emerson couldn’t take his eyes off the scene, a profound sense of sick fascination and horror muddling his thoughts. Then, before he could comprehend what he had seen, the woman’s nose snapped into place—brand new. The dark, bloody smears around her nose remained, but otherwise, it was impossible to tell it had ever been broken. A low growl rumbled through the room, snapping Emerson out of his stupor as the woman locked bloodshot eyes with him.
A snarl pulled her lips apart to reveal blood-stained, pointed canines.
Without thinking, Emerson flipped onto his back, planted his elbows, and raised both feet, kicking out like a bucking horse.
His shoes caught her square in the stomach, eliciting another dull crack as her sternum and ribs fractured and caved in. The woman howled in agony, the momentum of his kick sending her crashing into the shelves. A hollow metallic reverb echoed as he thought he saw the back of her head hit a shelf corner. He couldn’t be sure, though, because he was already scrambling to his feet, feeling something warm and wet soaking his hands.
Emerson could hear the woman’s frenzied breathing and the scrape of her nails as she followed his trail, closing in. His mind raced, calculating the distance to the door and weighing his odds of making it there in time. It was a slim chance, but it was all he had. Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself forward, ignoring the searing pain ripping through his body with every movement. He limped toward the exit door, favoring his left leg. He couldn’t remember when he’d injured it so badly, but the thought was pushed to the back of his mind as his shoulder weakly slammed into the only remaining exit door.
The door shook in its frame, firmly closed.
Emerson felt a surge of scorching frustration burn in his chest and throat as he cursed his luck. With a pained shout, he pushed off the door, leaving behind a short, bloody smear. His hand found the doorknob, and his fingers curled around it, twisting and wrenching it open so hard that he lost his already flagging balance and fell onto the hallway floor on his hands and knees.
The hallway stretched out before him, silent and empty; the only sound was the ragged rhythm of his breaths. Each inhale brought a searing pain through his chest, and each exhale was a desperate attempt to keep moving, to keep living. But his body betrayed him.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
As Emerson knelt on the cold hallway floor, gasping to catch his breath, his world began to warp and twist, everything around him becoming a discordant mess of colors and shapes. His thoughts became muddled, obscured behind a curtain of fog that made it hard to focus or think clearly. He numbly lifted his hands to his face, only to be met with a sticky warmth. Rubbing at his eyes with the palms of his trembling hands, he tried to clear the haze from his mind, but it refused to budge. It was like his thoughts were trapped in quicksand, and every effort only made it worse. His arms and legs felt like lead, a bone-deep exhaustion setting in. The burst of adrenaline that had kept him going was losing to the blood loss.
A feral roar shattered the tenuous stillness, jolting him out of his stupor. A sharp pang shot down his spine, jarring his senses awake. Despite his battered body and addled mind, a surge of energy coursed through him as his primal instincts took hold. He knew, with utter certainty, that time was running out. He had only a few precious seconds before—
With a tortured groan, the supply room door gave way with a final, deafening shriek of protesting metal, bursting open and colliding with the adjacent wall with enough force to blow off a hinge and crack the drywall like an eggshell. The damning sound echoed through the empty corridor, bouncing off the walls like the toll of approaching death.
The woman blurred through the rough opening, releasing a bloodcurdling scream and crashing partway through the opposite wall.
Emerson didn’t turn as the sounds of snarling mixed with the splintering of wood and drywall being ripped apart filled the hallway. The thought of the woman's claws digging into his skin, and the taste of copper heavy in his mouth, spurred him into action. He pushed himself up from the ground, his muscles protesting every movement as he scooted closer to the wall and shakily rose to his feet, using it as support until he could reach the waist-high railing. Terrible, fiery pain seared through every muscle as glass stabbed at his joints, and fatigue wore down his weakened constitution. Hissing through gritted teeth, he dragged himself along the wall—hand by hand, step by step.
A slow, steady trickle of warm, dark blood dripped onto the floor from under his torn pant leg.
He kept going as long as he could in that dazed state, holding onto the railing with a white-knuckled grip, until finally, one of his knees gave out, and he collapsed sideways against the wall. He felt utterly and completely spent as he slowly slid down the wall and hung his aching head.
The sounds of thrashing and splintering wood stopped a second later.
A low snarl reached his ears; his blood ran cold, and he began uncontrollably shivering as he felt a pair of eyes on the back of his neck.
A footstep.
He held his breath.
Another.
He clenched his hands into fists to stop their shaking.
The snarling grew louder. Closer.
Emerson closed his eyes, hoping he would lose consciousness from the blood loss and wouldn’t feel whatever was about to happen to him.
“Um, hello?! Is someone there? What’s going on out here?!” a familiar voice suddenly shouted from down the hall.
Emerson’s eyes slowly opened. He looked back almost at the same time as the woman.
Liam stood at the far end of the hallway, staring at the bloody scene with wide eyes and his mouth hanging open.
The woman’s head cocked unnaturally to the side as she examined the newcomer through a curtain of auburn hair.
The hallway descended into an eerie silence.
The beast roared; the woman screamed; Liam screamed.
The woman blurred across the hallway and was on him in a flash. Both went down in a blurry flail of limbs and snarls and shouting.
Gouts of bright red blood painted the wall in time with Liam's agonized wails and cries.
“No!” Emerson hoarsely screamed, weakly bashing the wall with an aching fist before falling back against it, overcome with fatigue and nausea. His mind couldn’t handle it anymore, and his body finally gave out, no matter how much he wanted to move. He leaned his head against the wall, his eyes barely open as the world descended into a visual slurry of shapes and colors.
He was so tired. He wanted to sleep. He wanted it to end. It was all a nightmare. He just wanted to wake up in his bed and go to work—anything but this.
But sleep wouldn’t claim him, leaving a fading Emerson to listen to Liam’s final, dying screams as they gradually turned to wet gurgles, and then finally, nothing at all.
A heavy gulping filled the corridor.
A tear slid down Emerson’s cheek, cutting a thin line through the drying blood staining his skin.
The muffled sound of a door squeaking open; footsteps.
“Oh my god…” a horrified woman’s voice entered his ringing ears.
“Oh my god!” A blue blur flew past his peripherals.
Head lolling, Emerson’s bleary eyes tracked the blueish shape as it ran straight toward Liam and the woman.
“Ma’am! Ma’am—Miss, are you…? Wait, wh—”
The woman’s question became a frantic scream, and then Emerson heard a sickening crack.
Then nothing. More gulping, more wet crunching.
Emerson’s eyes finally fluttered shut.
----------------------------------------
Emerson's eyes fluttered open, the world slowly coming into focus around him.
His eyes widened, and his mouth slightly parted as he looked around his childhood bedroom, the familiar surroundings causing memories of his youth to flood back in a cascade of bittersweet nostalgia.
The white shutters over his windows were thrown wide, spilling golden bars of afternoon sunlight into the room, bathing everything in a warm and comforting glow. His small wooden desk stood against one wall, its surface scarred with the markings of a hundred childhood projects. The chair beside it was still and quiet, a silent witness to the passing of time.
Across from the desk stood his wardrobe, a sturdy and dependable presence that had seen him through thick and thin. Its doors were slightly ajar, revealing the familiar sight of his neatly folded clothes and random possessions he vaguely recalled playing with.
For a moment, he simply sat there on the edge of his comfortable bed, soaking in the peaceful atmosphere.
But then, something shifted. It was a subtle change, something he couldn't quite put his finger on, but he could feel it in the very air around him.
The lighting in the room seemed to alter, becoming more pronounced, yet dimmer and duller.
The atmosphere became charged with a strange energy.
And suddenly, he realized he was no longer the same person. The transformation was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was there nonetheless. And then he forgot.
Now, his eyes burned with an intensity that could only have come from crying for some time. They were puffy and swollen, and he could feel the sting of salt as it traced tracks down his cheeks.
A voice, calm and measured, spoke beside him. "Who was it this time?" it asked, the words softly wrapping Emerson in a warm blanket.
Emerson turned his head away, his heart heavy with shame and self-doubt. He didn't want his dad to see him like this, all broken up and emotionally torn. He felt like he was letting his father down by being this weak. He knew it was all his own fault, as it always was. Why couldn't he just let things go? Brush off others' judgmental gazes and move on? Why did every stranger's glance feel like a damning indictment passed down by some unseen jury?
Emerson squeezed his eyes shut tighter and shook his head; a small ache bloomed at the base of his neck.
And it wasn't just the teachers or his friends, though they definitely contributed to his spirals. It honestly felt like it was the world itself, with its constant barrage of expectations and demands, each one more impossible to meet than the last. He didn't understand why or how, but it felt like he was constantly drowning in a sea of judgment and disapproval, with no lifeline in sight.
The throbbing ache slowly became more pronounced, crawling up his neck like a spider.
And yet, even as he spiraled as frequently as he did, he knew that something had to change. He couldn't go on like this; he didn't want to go on like this, living in a constant state of fear and self-recrimination. He needed to find a way out. But he didn't know if he had it in him.
The pain grew sharper, now at the top of his head. His entire body started to hurt, especially his chest and shoulders.
His father let out a deep, heavy sigh and slowly rose from the bed to sit on the floor beside him, positioning himself so that his head was level with the covers. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes.
Emerson couldn't help but feel a sense of gratitude wash over him as he looked at the side of his father's tired but kind face. Then, his dad spoke while looking forward, his voice soft and kind. "You don't have to be perfect, Emerson," he said. "You just have to be yourself. That's more than enough."
"But," his father said, tapping his chin with a finger, looking thoughtful, "how about this...?" The question hung in the air between them. His father turned, angling himself to look up at Emerson, his deep grey eyes boring into his son's lighter ones.
A sudden, sharp pain blossomed on the right side of Emerson's neck. It was difficult to describe the pain because it almost instantly became a warm, soft pulse of pleasure that radiated through his body. He started feeling tired. He felt like yawning, but his mouth wouldn't move. He felt like stretching his sore body and crawling beneath the warm, comfy sheets, but his arms and legs felt like they weighed hundreds of pounds.
“What if I told you the secret to happiness?" his father asked, a warm smile reaching his tired eyes.
Emerson felt an incredibly compelling sense of deja vu. This was important. He wanted to hear this; he needed to hear this!
He wanted to nod, to speak, to move, to do anything at all, but his body betrayed him. His throat felt like sandpaper, his mouth dry and unresponsive. Each breath was suddenly an impossible struggle, as if he were gasping for air in a vacuum.
The world grew dark and blurry, a swirling mass of shapes and shadows that had at some point replaced his childhood room. And then, even the formless amalgam of nothing vanished, replaced with an endless darkness.
Then suddenly, he was falling.
Falling.
Falling..
Falling...
Into a cold, empty embrace.