2 Minutes to Live

12 minutes to live. 

running. fast. faster than ever before. not thinking, just running. the hub is 12 minutes away. i have done it many times before. i can do it. 

10 minutes to live.

looking. over my shoulder. behind me. i can see them. the large one, his face is red and splotchy. the smaller one, his forehead is damp. they are not as fit as me. not as fast.

8 minutes to live.

hiding. in forest now. concealed by trunks, branches, leaves. i lost them. well, they lost me. my body is tired. my body is aching. i can run fast but i feel it after. try and breathe. not working, not breathing. spluttering. gasping. vomiting. but not breathing. 

6 minutes to live. 

thinking. can breathe again, feeling better. thinking of them. they are after me and they wont stop. they never do. they keep coming and i keep running. repeat. repeat. repeat. want it to stop. afraid that one day i wont be able to run anymore. my life is a joke. ha ha ha. no, not the funny kind of joke. cruel kind. need to go now. must reach the hub. 

4 minutes to live. 

creeping. on my toes. through forest. stepping over roots, plants, creatures. i am quiet. so quiet. don’t want them to hear me. they haven’t left. haven’t given up. never do. i know they are trying to find me, to follow me. they are searching for any sound of me. that’s why i am quiet. almost at the hub now. almost safe. 

2 minutes to live.

running. fast. faster than earlier. they found me. was not quiet enough. the hub is starting to emerge. i see it. white building, grey roof. almost there. i can make it. i always make it. i check behind me one last time. they are close. my legs are aching. they are so close. my lungs are burning. they are too close. my heart is pounding. they have never been so close. 

i feel it. hot breath on my neck. rough hand on my skin. sharp knife on my throat. 

darkness.

The Start of a Piece of Gothic Fiction

The night is lit dimly by the one working street light. After straining to read my work papers in the poor lighting for at least fifteen minutes, still not quite ready to return to my awful roommate, I fling them across onto the passenger seat.

I look up. A beautiful woman approaches me. She is tall and very slim, and her body is engulfed by a long black coat that just reaches the top of her high heeled boots. Dark hair tumbles down her back, gently swinging from side to side as she walks towards my parked car. She passes under the street light and my eyes crawl across her face, drinking in her pale complexion, and honing in on her full lips, which are painted a deep burgundy. I know that I should stop staring at her, but I can’t draw my vision away from her incredible beauty.

She reaches me. A long fingernail taps on my window, she bends down to peer through.

I wind it down. The bitter breeze immediately chills my skin.

“Can I help you?” I mentally kick myself for the shakiness in my voice. I don’t think I have ever spoken to someone this attractive before.

Her lips curl into a small smile before she replies.

“Yes. Yes you can.” There is something in her tone that seems to reach out and slither its way down my spine.

I laugh nervously, and look down for a second. That is her cue.

I feel a sharp sting in my neck and the world melts away.

- 7 Years later-

When I awake, she is gone. I can feel her absence. Or rather, I cannot feel her presence. Whenever she is nearby, a soft ache begins in my head; a pleasant ache, similar to when you press gently onto a fading bruise and even though you know you shouldn’t like the pain, you do. The farther from me she gets, the fainter the ache becomes, until I no longer feel it at all. Like now.

I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to focus on something other than the detached feeling in my head, the nothingness that reminds me that I am alone, that she is not close by. I try to concentrate on the accumulation of smells that linger on the lavish fabrics decorating the furnishings, but my nose does not register them. All I can register is the image of her face that is projected onto the back of my eyelids. Her cruel smile haunts my dreams and haunts my reality. I desperately want to be free from it, from this place, but I can't. I need her. 

Angels

In the glow of the evening sun,
The angel arrives, the angel comes,
With golden skin and golden wings,
An angel whispers, an angel sings,
They're beauty outside but ugly within,
Angels aren't virtue, angels are sin,
All-knowing minds you cannot fool,
Masters of evil, masters of cruel,
Cunning eyes as small as beads,
An angel lures, an angel feeds,
A gentle bite to human skin,
The blood flows out, the blood flows in,
Pointy teeth now stained with red,
A human dying, a human dead,
Sharp claws tear the flesh apart,
To reach their favourite, to reach the heart,
In the glow of the morning rise,
The angel leaves, the angel flies.

The Creature

The creature rose from the flames, it's mouth stretched into a silent scream. It's face, once beautiful, was distorted unnaturally and burnt flesh tore away in strips, leaving it raw underneath. As if sensing it was being watched, the creature's head snapped round to face the girl. She gagged and her hands flew to cover her mouth. Where the creature's eyes should have been were two bloody gouges, as if it had scratched it's eyes out with it's own talons. Perhaps it had.

Making You Laugh

"I could not push away the burning desire to make you laugh. As if your laughter was the sound that fuelled me, brought me to life. I could not live without it, for the thing that gave me the most happiness was seeing you happy."

Bluebell

Every year on this same day he returned to this spot. Always alone, always clutching a single bluebell, freshly picked. This year, his brown hair veiled his eyes, he had to keep shoving it back. It hadn't been cut for a while. The hands that were wrapped around the bluebell stem were red and cracked, the nails bitten down. His skin was washed out and shadows lurked beneath his eyes. He was tired, so tired, but he did not let this get in the way of what he had to do today, what he had to do on this day every year.

He is Gone (Re-draft)

Through my hazy state between awake and asleep, I feel him climb in next to me. The heat from his body immediately comforts me; I snuggle closer. For three hours his absence has left me restless, but now I am finally able to relax. His arm, slightly lifting my top, slides under my back. I peak down at his hand, curled around my waist, and sigh in contentment. I wish that for once it could still be there when morning arrives, when I am more awake. Yet every time the sun inches high enough to cast bright beams through my window, waking me, he is gone. The next day is no exception. An overwhelming brightness flashes behind my closed eyelids and stirs me. The emptiness on the sheets next to me engulfs any chance that it was real this time. 
The next night when he climbs under the covers, I shift my head so that it lies on his chest. Its gentle rise and fall reassures me that he has returned again, and that he hasn’t left me yet. He brushes his lips against my forehead. The kiss lingers there long after he draws away. As I slowly sink into a deep sleep, I feel his words tickle my ear, but am far enough gone that I can’t quite catch what he says.