A freewriting exercise to try get my creative juices flowing again. I’ve been terribly blocked lately. This could become more, or not. Enjoy.
There is no time to think. Only react. I jump as the zombie face screams bloodily into the screen. I am the character, I am the screen. I shudder with a cathartic sigh, rippling the bathwater as I reach for another sip of my wine. I am safe. It’s Friday night and I’m lying in my bathtub safe at home, sipping wine and watching whatever zombie flick prime recommended to me on my laptop – a safe distance from the water but at the perfect forty-five-degree angle so I can half submerge my head in water and never lose sight of the gore.
This is the life.
The program ends, and I let the auto-play do its thing. I use these few seconds to contemplate my life, but never long enough to act on anything. This is my happy existence.
I hear a crash outside. I startle but only because I’m on edge already. I have a love-hate thing with zombies. My heart pounds in my chest. I stand up in the bath and wrap my towel around me. A shiver runs up my spine. There’s a weird part of me that loves the electric feeling only fear can give you.
I step out of the bath and hear glass shattering. Or, maybe it was just the water. A little alarm bell starts to ring in the back of my head. I swallow the sudden taste of metal in my mouth and pull the plug out. I can’t move. I stand still, willing another sound to happen, so I can react but hoping to hear nothing… but what if…?
The door rattles in its hinges as something forces its weight against it.
My scream is silent, I bite my hand instead.
The door rattles again, but there is no other sound. Am I being paranoid? Is my flatmate home early, drunk and needing to pee?
‘Hannah?’ I call out.
Silence. And then groaning – wailing. A desperate cry for something.
My hands are shaking. I’m freezing. I have no clothes to wear. I have no way to see what is on the other side of the door. Maybe she’s playing the mother of all tricks on me? My mouth is dry, and I have nothing else to do but stand here. Waiting.
The door rattles again and a fist comes through the door – searching, grabbing. It’s a real arm, with skin, covered in blood, not makeup. The arm pulls back through the door peeling back most of the skin, leaving it in the arm-shaped hole in the door.
There is no time to think. Only react. I jump as the zombie face screams bloodily into my face.
(c) 2018 Evallone