Don't Get Into The Car

[ 5 ]

At the break of dawn, as you slowly flutter open your eyes, the piercing sunlight streaming through the window momentarily blinds you. Squinting against the brightness, you let out a low sigh and instinctively roll to the side, burrowing your face deep into the welcoming softness of the pillow. There's a part of you that resists to wake up. A part that wants to swim a little longer in the sea of dreams. The sun seems to have only just started its ascent into the sky. Its pale light hinting at the early hour. And you, you're tired. So, so tired. The logic in your sleepy mind determines that surely there can be no harm if you decide to sleep in today.

As you get comfortable, you feel yourself sinking deeper into the plush mattress. It moulds to your body. The sweet scent of freshly washed sheets wafts around you. For a fleeting moment, you're teetering on the precipice of unconsciousness, the call of slumber as irresistible as a siren's song. But then, abruptly, your heart drops. With a jolt akin to a lightning strike, you jerk up, flinging the covers away from you as if they were chains. You sit up in bed, your eyes flying open in sudden realization.

You realize that you're not in the basement anymore. Instead, you find yourself sprawled out on a spacious bed, covered in crisp, pristine white sheets. As your palm glides across the smooth fabric of the blankets, smoother than a mirror's surface, you can't help but grimace. You feel out of place, tainted even, in such a clean environment.

Your gaze sweeps across the room, drinking in the surroundings, like a parched traveler in a desert. You are in someone's bedroom. There's an enormous wardrobe to your side. Its door is ajar, revealing an array of women's clothing hanging neatly in rows. Two windows are set into the wall. Their views obscured by heavy, grey curtains. The room is minimally furnished, devoid of any personal touches or decorations. The only other piece of furniture is a desk, pushed into a corner of the room. It looks lonely, almost melancholic. The sterility of the entire space is palpable, its silence as unsettling as the calm before a storm.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. A sharp pain shoots up your right leg, causing you to hiss involuntarily. You twist slightly, allowing your fingers to skim over your thigh. You can feel a small puncture wound left by a needle. You close your eyes, trying to piece together the fragmented memories.

You remember being in the basement. And the feeble light of the candle being extinguished by the careless sway of your arm. You recall the terror that gripped you, the tears that flowed freely, and the silent prayers you sent up for Simon to return. You also remember the desperate run for your life, sprinting up the stairs as an unknown presence chased after you. Back then, you didn't know who it was, but now, it seems painfully obvious. Of course, it was Simon. It had to be him.

You want to be angry with him, seething with rage even, and indeed you are. But a part of you, a part that had been a quiet whisper in the back of your mind until now, is happy that he came back, even if his return was accompanied by a scare. This part of you, you realise, is also relieved that instead of paralyzing you again, he merely put you to sleep, presumably with the help of some sleeping meds.

Your head snaps towards the door as it creaks open. Simon steps in, the light from the hallway casting long shadow in the room. As soon as his hawk-like eyes land on you, sitting there, gripping the edge of the bed with white-knuckled intensity, his lips curl into a smile. It's a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, but it's a smile, nonetheless. He is wearing a shirt, its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms. Your eyes drift down, registering the ash-grey shorts and the casual slippers he dons. He looks casual, too casual, and the sight of him in such nonchalant attire somehow makes your stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Ah, you are finally awake," he purrs, his voice echoing in the small room, washing over you like a chilling winter breeze. He walks up to you. His fingers lightly trace your jaw, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake before he playfully prods your nose with his knuckle. Then, without another word, he moves towards the wardrobe, leaving you alone with your thoughts.