roule
take it all or leave it... I Feel You
so this story kinda just snuck into my head and refused to leave until i started writing, so here it is!
title is from this
chapter title is from this
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chapter title is from this
1.
VESSEL
The night it happened was an oppressively hot night, the air feeling as if it was weighing you down, smothering you with waves of heat. The forest within Easly Park --- deep within the southern part of Florida --- was dark, trees hanging above and dwarfing anyone who walked the trails. Occasionally a refreshing gust of wind would pass through the trees, the rustling leaves making an ominous rattling that seemed to echo throughout the park, causing the lone man walking through the path to whip his head around in fear, before stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets and walking a little faster, his eyes darting around.
This wasn’t his first time being in the forest alone, in the dark, having filmed stuff for a horror story that seemed to be on hiatus forever. However, he’d had a few drinks too many at his friend’s house, (5 shots of vodka…? 6 shots of whiskey…? It didn’t matter.) and could barely keep his thoughts straight, let alone fight off some attacker coming from the overgrown underbrush by the sides of the gravel trail. It wasn’t like he wanted to get plastered tonight, but those drinks just kept coming and everyone at the party seemed to be having a good time, so why not? Plus, the drinks kept him from remembering how vapid and boring his life at home was, living alone, single, with a awful job in a pharmacy that didn’t pay well and no social life to speak of because of it. He sniffed angrily as he walked farther down the path, the woozy euphoria of drinking not quenching his discontent. How perfect.
The man was halfway through the forest before he heard a sudden loud rustle, and sharp breathing. He froze, looking around him in an attempt to see whatever was moving. Maybe he was just drunk, he thought to himself, before shrugging and walking a few steps forward with a loud crunch of gravel. The man heard another rustling noise, much closer this time, and his head flitted backwards, blinking rapidly in an attempt to see. There hasn't been any monster or demon attacks in several years, right? The only attack that he can recall in his stupor is one involving a 5 year old girl and some sort of gigantic, dark… panther? At least, that's what he remembers… The demons and monsters that hadn’t learnt to fit into human society were the most deadly, having a harsh grudge towards humans of any kind for intruding on their territory long ago. It wouldn’t surprise him if one of them was lurking around, looking for an easy kill.
“Hello?” The man said, only hearing his voice echo in the distance. He heard the bushes rustle, and managed to see movement in the bushes by his right side. Too small to conceal a panther, his mind notes.
“Hello?” He repeated, and was answered by a heaving breath out. The man bent down to squint into the bushes, where he could see a vague figure in the bushes, shaking violently.
“Are you okay, man?” He asked, cocking his head in concern.
He only got a deep gurgle in response, almost if the figure was trying to clear something from its throat, and watched as the figure tried its best to crawl out of the brushes, hands visibly scrabbling in the gravel. The man didn’t know what to think about this figure, it didn’t appear to be a demon trying to kill him. In fact, it was acting kind of like it was trying to get him to help it, and the man felt a deep pity set in his heart, despite his best attempts to stay somewhat unfeeling towards it.
The figure heaved again, reaching out for him. Some sort of liquid glinted on their hand, dripping down onto the grass silently. The man reached his hand over, clasping his right hand over the figures. Their hand felt normal, sticky and wet from whatever was on the figure’s hand, but it didn’t feel like a claw, wasn’t cold or sharp but warm and soft. He just really hoped the liquid wasn’t any body fluids, shuddering at the thought.
Suddenly, a jolt of white hot pain came over his hand, and he gritted his teeth painfully as the figure dug its nails deep into his wrist. He wanted to jolt away from the slowly rising figure, but his feet were rooted to the ground, refusing to move. He couldn’t see the figure’s features or it’s face, only making out that it was about to his nose, and visibly in pain, body hunched over. It reached its other hand towards his face, and he heard it open its mouth in an attempt to say something to him, before suddenly vanishing into thin air, and before the man collapsed to the trail again, right hand throbbing in red, angry pain. He wanted to howl and curse in pain, letting all his rage out in one screech, but he just gritted his teeth and stayed quiet, holding his hand close to him. He felt a large, wet item of clothing fall across his legs, and he jolted to his feet.
“What the hell?” He whispered, holding the cloth as far away as he could, between his index finger and thumb, shaking in pain. The clothing appeared to be some sort of leather jacket, his hand holding it up by it’s sleeve. There was an obvious hole through the back, and the man hoped it wasn’t caused by what he thought it was.
He heard rustling in the woods again, this time farther away, but faster, and repeated quicker.
Then, he heard a voice.
“Find that brat yet?” A male voice shouted, spitting the word ‘brat’ out with such disdain, and even in his drunken state, the man knew he had no choice but to book it out of there, dashing across the gravel with a crunching noise. He was running on animalistic terror, pain, and adrenaline, still holding that jacket but practically clutching it by now, and managed to make it a block and a half down before it all blew out, and the man found himself hunched over the sidewalk, wheezing loudly. He should have worked out more, before all this…
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he gingerly pulled it out of his back pocket, trying to collect himself. The screen showed a picture of a smiling, sort of dopey looking guy, about 20 or so, pale skin, hair covered by a bright green baseball cap, with the words “ELIJAH” in white, across the screen.
“Hello?” The man answered his phone, only to be met with loud, almost overpowering party chatter, and he winced.
“Max, buddy.... Where you at, man?” Elijah slurred into the phone, so close it was nearly uncomfortable. Max groaned and rolled his eyes. “Gotta couple of girls askin’ for ya…” Elijah laughed.
“Listen man…” Max said, darting his eyes around him. “I-I’m not exactly in the mood right now…”
“Aw come on…” Elijah continued, and Max swore he heard footsteps coming towards him. “You’re always so shy with them, man! How do you expect yourself to get a-”
THEY’RE HERE!!
Max’s head throbbed, and he clasped his head in pain. It itched underneath his skin, deep within his skull, and he could hear Elijah asking for him, asking what was wrong with him. The voice in his head was screeching, screaming loud enough that he swore that it could be heard outside of his mind.
THEY’RE HERE, THEY’RE HERE!! THEY’LL KILL US, KILL US, KILL US, KILL US!!
Feeling a sudden second wind, Max ran down the sidewalk, trying desperately to make it to his house before they could get to him, whoever they were. The voice in his head was silent the whole way down, and he had a feeling it was because it was either 1. his anxiety, or 2. some sort of drunken paranoia that came over him. He’d hung up the phone a long time ago, and he could spot his house --- his parents old summer house --- with it’s dark roof and white balcony visible even in the night. Max ran up to the front door, fumbled with the keys for a few panic filled seconds, and slid into his house and locked the door behind him. He leaned against the wall, the room to dark to see anything, and breathed deeply, in and out and in and out until he could feel his breathing slowly begin to regulate itself.
Max walked over to the bathroom, feeling an overwhelming urge to be sick, hoping to just get it over with and pass out on his bed. He flicked the lights on, turning to face himself in the giant mirror on top of the sink. Max looked unkempt, his dark, wavy hair curling around his face and flipping up at the base of his neck. His face was sort of boxy, and he was walking a thin line between stubble and beard, thick but not enough to be considered a real beard. There were bags under his dark round eyes, and his complexion seemed paler than the tan it usually was. His dark t-shirt was sort of ruffled, and his right hand was covered in some sort of red li- oh my ****ing god…!
Max slammed the sink on and washed the blood off of his hand, hoping that he didn’t get someone’s blood all over his house and clothes. Thankfully, most of it was coming off of his hand and draining into the sink, pink swirling down the drain. As he washed his hand off, he noticed a tattoo on his right hand, dark wavy runes written across the top of his hand, towards his knuckles. Max squinted at it, trying to find some way to read it, and noticing that it wasn’t washing off, not even a little bit. Instead of panicking, he just sighed, ran his hands through his messy dark hair, and walked into his bedroom.
It was probably his mind making up things, he reasoned as he slid into bed, having changed into sweatpants. He drank too much, made up things in the forest, or maybe some sort of demon cursed him to hallucinate the events as he walked through the forest. He’d heard of pixies or elves that did something similar, made the forest seem like it lasted for years so they could lead you to your death. It was probably some dumb forest guardian trying to force him out of the park, and the effects would be over by the time that he’d wake up.
He fell asleep, believing that everything would be fine in the morning, that nothing would change.
He was wrong.
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