The Last Sprite (ManxMan)

Chapter 10

Dedication: Nhougl4199 - Congrats on starting your writing journey! Don't give up! :D

Chapter 10

By mid afternoon, Jake and I managed to drink two entire pots of coffee, and while I filled the water reserve once more for a third pot, Jake paced back and forth from the bottom of the stairs across the living room and through the kitchen. I thought surely his bare feet repeatedly slapping against the wood would remove its finish, but my mind was too preoccupied to care about the flooring. Every time I closed my eyes, the image of that creature's loose, sagging skin pulling into a pained, aware smile flashed through my memory.

My skin prickled; though, this wasn't a new occurrence by any means. It seemed like my natural state nowadays.

My hands shook as I moved, causing water to slosh over the pot's edge. Nothing seemed to ease my nerves, and I couldn't recall a moment in my life where I had ever been so scared. We'd contemplated calling the police, but who would believe us? The whole circumstance sounded too insane for anyone to believe; hell, I'd seen it with my own eyes, and all I wanted to do was force myself to believe everything I saw were hallucinations.

Tricks my sheltered brain came up with on its own.

I'd take a giant dose of cabin fever over winged monsters. In my exhausted, coffee fueled delirium, I found myself imaging my skin peeling from my bones and quickly decided with a prompt blink of my eyes that maybe cabin fever wasn't much better.

Impatiently drumming my nails across the marble counter tops, I blew out a deep breath and knelt down. Opening and reaching under the cabinets located directly under the sink, I blindly outstretched my fingers until they brushed against a tall glass object. Wrapping my hand around the bottle's neck, I withdrew my spoils from its hiding place and sat it on the counter next to the coffee pot.

When the glass tapped against the marble, Jake ceased his pacing and stood by my side, eyeing the bottle. "Whiskey?"

Without meeting his gaze, I unscrewed the cap, tossing it haphazardly onto the counter. "Jack Daniel's is for emergencies," I mumbled as I lifted the bottle to my lips and stole a long drag, "and this is an emergency." I'd picked up the bottle of whiskey a month after my parents' deaths, and in a fit of depression, I drank half the giant bottle myself.

The subsequent morning spent hugging the toilet still flashed vividly through my mind.

It wasn't the best way to cope, but at the time, I didn't really give a damn. Every adult needed a set of rules to live by, and "Jack Daniel's is for emergencies" stood between "Baths make everything better" and "Milk is good a week past its posted expiration date."

Wincing as the liquid burned all the way from my throat to my stomach, I replaced the cap, returned the bottle on the counter, and closed my eyes. The sharp, almost woodsy flavor resonated with my senses and actually chased away a few chills that lingered on my skin.

"I don't think drinkin's a good idea; we should keep our wits sharp in case that thing shows up again." Thing left Jake's mouth like a curse as he gently wrapped an arm around my shoulders comfortingly.

Staring at the black water as it dripped into the glass pot, I sighed and sank into his side. "What else are we supposed to do?" Nearly reaching for the bottle once more, I stopped; instead, I rubbed the sore, aching spot on my arm.

Jake gripped me so tightly that my skin already darkened with the promise of a lingering bruise.

"I feel so weak!" I shouted, suddenly extra exasperated and annoyed. "When that thing shows up at my front door with its creepy, gross buddies, what's to stop it from comin' right on in and slicing us to bits with its freakin' claws." I shifted in Jake's arms and spun around to stare up into his eyes.