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Fear: Ch. 14It was the song again. The same, jovial tune that had played while I ran up a dark street. The same tune that I had almost been murdered to
I opened my eyes and saw white.
I was in a hospital bed, staring up at the neat, tiled ceiling. There was an IV in my arm, and just like the fresh blood in the tube, everything came flowing back.
When I had awoken to Adrian's pallid face, he'd been in a cold panic. After resting me on the sofa, he'd went back in the kitchen, receiver raised to his lips to call in a team.
The kitchen had been empty though. The only sign that Stan Peters had been there was the vast red puddle on the floor.
And the open window.
So, somewhere out in the unknown, he still walks free.
This thought made my head spin.
"Now, now sweetie." A heavy-set nurse with blonde hair and a white uniform had just entered the room, pulling aside the curtain to my bed. "This monitor says your getting worked up. Looks like you need a higher dosage "
"No." I mumbled, voice dry f
Fear: Ch. 13With all of my strength, I slid from underneath Stan Peter's lifeless body. I whimpered, gritting my teeth and them howling in pain as I unforked my hand from the tile.
I turned to see Adrian in the kitchen doorway, pistol in his tense hand. His hair was wild and he wore his black uniform. A rough five o' clock shadow told me he'd had a long night, too.
"Jamie, oh my god."
He raced over to me and fell to his knees. His face had gone pale, mouth open in shock. His eyes, wide with disbelief, scanned the bloody kitchen scene and then fell on the body of Stan Peters, which was bleeding out onto the floor like a wet mop.
A grim expression appeared on his face, and he looked as though he had trouble averting his eyes from the dead clown corpse.
"Let's get you out of here." he said, firmness in his eyes, "I'm gonna call an ambulance."
"Drake " I whispered, "He killed Drake. And Roscoe."
I began to sob uncontrollably and Adrian made a move to lift me, but I stopped him. Stan
Fear: Ch. 12In a single moment of panic, my brain sunk under.
I'm dreaming. Drake is in the living room with Roscoe and Adrian is on the couch, sipping coffee. There is no fucked up clown in my kitchen. There is no Stan Peters.
But the clown had just spoken, saying my name slowly as though tasting it. This was real. I was going to die.
I felt my back touch the wall, not even registering my body's movement. I opened my mouth to speak, but only a chocked whimper emerged. My eyes fell on the butcher knife lying on the table in the center of the room. He and I were equidistant from the weapon.
I moved without rational thought, going for it.
And then he made his move.
In three long steps he'd reached me, with the lightning fast agility of a cheetah. For a man so tall and lumber, he was quick. Grabbing me by the front of my coat, he lifted me a foot off the ground. My feet dangled, my face was level with his, and I screamed.
My cry was cut short as he slammed me into the refrigerator with such force tha
Fear: Ch. 11A cheerful tune was ringing through the air.
Marter Street had been quiet up until then. I'd broke from the woods approximately five minutes after leaving Drake. His house was the only one on this particular street, and I'd already raided it for a land-line phone. Upon my arrival, I'd stared in horror at the sight of the phone, which had been ripped from the wall, rendered useless.
But I hadn't stuck around.
So now, after minutes of complete silence, the music started. It was a familiar jingle played by ice cream trucks or children's toys. Or carnivals.
I look back over my shoulder at the source of the noise to find nothing. An empty street, tall light poles, trees.
I pull out my cell phone and hit refresh again, to no avail.
Marter street is bordered by woods on both sides. I look right and left as though crossing the street, scanning the darkness for any sign of life. I approach a stop sign, the end of the road, and start running.
My house was only minutes away, so I dashed madly unt
Fear: Ch. 10I hit the ground face down, hard.
I groaned as my head spun from the impact, and my whole being felt disoriented. I laid there motionless for a moment, but then I remembered where I was, and who I was trying to get away from.
I sat up, horrorstruck as I spotted the body, only feet away from me. Upon impact, my foot had sunk into soft skin, so I knew it was no tree branch.
I sucked in a breath and scrambled over to the dark heap. My face and palms stung from scraping the ground, but all of the pain subsided when I grabbed the shoulder and faced the motionless figure to me.
I gasped. It was Drake.
He was hardly recognizable. His handsome face was caked with dirt, mud, and blood; lips were parted, revealing a bloody space from where a tooth was missing; hair was matted with leaves and dirt; clothes were torn and bloodied, a fresh, warm trail leaking from a gash on his stomach.
I began to cry.
And then screamed as his hand came up to grab me. His blue eyes opened wide, and even in the dark
Fear: Ch. 9My heavy footsteps were muffled by a layer of soggy leaves that coated the ground. My breath seemed to be challenging the wind, escaping me in quick bursts. My heart was hammering behind my ribcage and I didn't even know how long I'd been running.
The trees around me, dark sentries coated in heavy nightfall, were tall and looming. Their jagged branches intertwined with one another, creating a large, thick canopy of decaying brown leaves. A canopy thick enough to block out the moon.
I'd taken a detour off of the main road about 10 minutes ago. Lucky enough to come upon a familiar wooded trail, I'd sprinted into the forest for cover.
Now I wish I hadn't.
I slowed to a steady gait, convinced that wherever Stan Peters was, he couldn't find me here. I still tasted the white paint from his face. It had been pasty and left a chalky residue inside my mouth. Stopping next to a thick oak tree, I spit onto the ground.
After a moment, my heart slowed and I gathered my scattered thoughts.
So Stan P
Stranger LoveI am not the sunlit wing-print
splayed out on the bedroom wall.
I am not the dark mass forming
in a corner of an airless hall.
I am not the viscous vengeance
where you sink your spinning wheels.
I am not the leaky bucket
hung up on your wishing well.
You are not my soul mate missing
wandering a winter's night.
You are not the sound of angels
singing by a candle's light.
You are not the rasp of fingers
fumbling with a hasp of steel.
You are not the tattered towel
soaking up the things I feel.
I am the oblivious child,
dancing where the wildflowers are.
You are my unwitting captive
lighting up a jelly jar.
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Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More