Home > Inescapable(3)

Inescapable(3)
Author: Amy A Bartol

I choose a box near the sink and begin unpacking it. As I set a picture of Uncle Jim and me on the bedside table, the clock tower of Central Hall scares me by loudly tolling out the hour. Bong… bong… bong… three o‘clock. The deep timbre of the bell churns the air ominously. I hope it doesn‘t do that all night because that could get really annoying, I think before trying to synchronize my clock to reflect the clock tower’s pronouncement.

Unpacking some of my clothes next, I finish putting them in the drawers. I have more time to kill before I have to walk to the Sage Center. Freshman orientation starts at four o’clock. My plan is to get there just in time to slip in the back of the auditorium and find a seat because the thought of milling around alone in the lobby before the orientation seems very awkward and unappealing.

After making my bed, I feel a little bit better as I lie on the soft coverlet, smelling the scent of home that clings to the blanket. Yawning tiredly, my eyes droop because I haven’t been sleeping well lately. I avoid sleep. When I sleep, I dream, and my dreams make me feel like I’m drowning. Yawning again, I push myself up, looking for another box to unpack so I won’t crash yet. I want to be utterly exhausted when I sleep so that there will be less of a chance that I’ll remember my nightmare.

Finding a small box by the sink, I pick it up and wrestle with the sticky packing tape, trying to rip it off. The tape sticks to my hand as I carry it to my desk, setting it down near the lamp. Pulling the box cutter from the pocket of my denim skirt, I expose the blade.

A shadow darts in front of the window, blotting out the sunlight for a moment. It distracts me so that I look up. In the next second, searing pain registers in my mind as blood runs onto the box. I hiss in pain, dropping the stupid box cutter with a clatter on the desk. As I inspect my finger, blood wells up from a deep cut. Walking to the sink, I run it under the cold water.

It’s not too deep. Maybe I can get away with just putting a bandage on it when I get it to stop bleeding, I think to myself. Finding a small towel to wrap around it, I open the medicine cabinet over the sink that I had stocked earlier. As I fumble with a box of bandages, I apply pressure to my cut. It’s throbbing like I had opened an artery while splotches of red soak through the bone-colored terrycloth.

Ignoring its pulsing ache, I go over to the windows again to see if someone is out there. I examine the fire escape again; I am on the second floor, and the grating is at least twenty feet off the ground. The ladder has to be pushed off of it, so no one can just jump onto it. Sticking my head out the window, I look up, but there is no way to enter it from above either. Feeling shady about it, I close the windows and lock them.

I’m so tired that I’m seeing things, I think, rubbing my eyes with my good hand. I cross back to my bed, flopping onto it to stare at the freshly painted white ceiling. Yawning, I turn my head, reading the clock. My eyes close for a second, and I feel for a moment like I am floating. I jerk my eyes open before pulling one of my pillows to me and hugging it for comfort. Watching the clock in front of me again, I try to stay awake.

Why is my room so cold? I wonder as I turn over on my side. It’s freezing… Opening my eyes, I stare hazily at the vinyl tiles beneath my damp cheek; they stretch out in a checkerboard pattern of muted beige and taupe into a desolate infinity. Touching my fingertips to my aching jaw, I lift my face from a sticky pool on the floor. Thick, red lines of blood slip down my neck to rain like tears onto my elegant top.

Beautiful music of the sweetest resonance sways around me, but it is punctuated by a grating, buzzing sound that is making my head dizzy. Disoriented and nauseous, I look toward the sound of the music.

My eyes fall upon the most beautiful face I have ever seen, but his perfect features are covered in gore. Large streaks of blood mottle the sides of his mouth, running in trails of horror from his face. A slow, sensual smile curls the corners of his lips as he sees me watching him.

Fear, like a choking noose, steals the air from my lungs, forbidding me to turn away from him. Gently, he lifts my hand while softly prying my fingers open. Small silver pendants dangle from a worn brown leather strap in my palm. They catch the light as the beautiful monster takes them from me.

A voice that sounds like my own whispers, “Unravel the life force and lose a soldier, a lover, a friend. Always been there… always there… “ Bong… “Can’t stop it from coming…” Bong… “Can’t stop…”

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Orientation

 

… Bong… Bong…

As my eyes fly open, I lurch up in bed—panting heavily, as if I’ve been running laps. My hand instinctively touches my cheek to see if there is anything on it…like blood. When I pull my fingertips back and see that they are clean, I hang my head in misery. My hand drops to my chest, feeling the bludgeoning beat of my heart within it.

Disoriented, I lift my head before focusing my attention on the clock near my bed. It’s four, my mind screams and my heartbeat triples. Freshman orientation…

In a panic, I drag myself out of bed, stumbling to the sink. I turn on the tap and splash some water on my face to wake myself up. Then, I pause. Blinking, I hold up my finger, but I can’t seem to find where I had cut myself. It’s gone—there isn’t even a mark on my skin—nothing to indicate that I’d even scratched myself with that box cutter.

Did I dream that cut? I wonder while my groggy mind struggles to wake up. No, I think, picking up the towel I had used to wrap my finger earlier. My blood is all over it. Searching the room for answers, I see the clock again—it’s past four. I’m missing orientation!

In a hurry, I check my reflection in the mirror again. I stand on my tiptoes and try to see if my denim skirt is appropriate for the orientation. I give it a quick tug to straighten it; it’s more of a micro mini than I’d thought, but I really don’t have time to change it now—it goes well with my sleeveless top. Quickly, I touch up my make-up.

Locking the door to my room, I move through the short hallway that leads to the main hall on the second floor. I jog down the stairs to the reception area and head for the beveled glass doors. Pushing one open and letting it bang closed behind me, I run down the sidewalk toward the auditorium.

It takes me no time at all to become flushed from the mixture of late afternoon sun, exertion, and stress over being late. This should’ve been a nice, casual stroll through the campus, I think, listening to the heavy panting of my breath.

The trees on campus are meticulously laid out to line the paths in arching aisles of green. Legions of birds are nesting in the thick canopy of leaves that stretch far above my head. It would be a beautiful nature walk, had I not been so late. As I listen to the calling birdsong above my ragged breath, I envy those birds for their ability to fly.

Sprinting the last few steps to the Sage Center, I make it just before an elderly woman with a sour expression on her face closes the doors to the auditorium. A grimace of apology crosses my face as her eyes rove over me in disapproval.

“They’re all in there, dear,” she says as she points to the doors at the back of the lobby.

“Thank you,” I murmur.

Taking a moment to catch my breath, I touch my stomach, because it feels slightly off all of a sudden—not hungry or upset—it’s more like the fluttering feeling you get on an airplane when it dips fast in turbulence. But, that isn’t exactly right…it feels like something inside of me is tugging me forward. I must be getting out of shape or something if I feel this strange after only running half a mile.

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