SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 80.6

SO COLD

I woke up in a cold sweat from a bad dream, consciousness attempted to retain the nightmare but it was alike to wispy smoke: slipping through fingers. I stared up at the ceiling, the stretch of white seemed forever-lasting, miles upon miles long. I could hear the insensate chattering of a commercial, something about salons and shiny blonde hair followed by low sobs. Who was that? I sat upright, feeling unsettled. "Cole." I shook his shoulder. "Wake up. Cole."

He murmured unintelligibly, in a trance-like sleep. It was impossible to rouse him.

I slipped out of bed, in a violaceous nightdress that reached my knees, warm feet against the cold floor. I found the semiautomatic on the bedside table, and was across the room in seconds.

Out on the landing, I paused with a hand on the banister. I could hear the person crying from downstairs. I saw the open door to Seth's bedroom and questioned. "Seth?" Wondering and aporetic. I didn't stop for an answer and slipped down the stairs without checking up on him.

I found myself stilling at the first step over the threshold to the living room. There was a dove-gray cashmere armchair faced towards the fireplace, angled away from the mouth of the room. Uneasiness slid into my gut. It was the same armchair grandma was found sitting on with a gaping hole in her forehead. It had been taken away for evidence. What was it doing here?

Questions arose, I stifled them. There were far more pressing concerns, such as the woman sat straight with glossy black hair. It caught the light.

She was no longer sobbing. Her silence was disconcerting, seemingly seconds from disturbing the peace in a violent outburst.

I was discomposed, spineless. I couldn't move. I had cold feet. Some part of me knew it wasn't real. It was impossible. She was dead. But I couldn't turn away. Transfixed.

The hair was a wig. It slipped, revealed a dust-brown cranium and old surgical scars. There was a sudden wail from her: "Help me! For God sake, help me!" She was in agony. Teeth clenched. Angrily-drawn eyebrows yanked downwards, a gaping hole between her legs, expression discoloured in pain as she pushed out a dark mass of writhing limbs. I could smell period blood.

I wanted to vomit.

The scene changed. Something brushed against my leg. I flinched. There was a babble – a child. He had to be a year old at the most, small in a striped red and white top and diaper. He had honey-brown eyes, the darkest skin and a helmet of curly brown hair. His smile melted my heart as he looked up at me, as crossed legged as his chubby legs could be. He held his arms out to me and just as I touched him, he blabbered nonsensically like babies do, and writhing yellow maggots spilled out of his mouth.

I flinched backwards, violent in my jerk-away, horrified.

I woke up, consciousness in tatters. It took me a long while to gather myself. Reality was an acquaintance of fiction: I couldn't shake the flashing images of Yolande in agony as she gave birth to rotting flesh or the child with maggots in his mouth. I sat upright, feeling sick. I thought of shooting to the bathroom, but couldn't stomach the thought of hanging my head in a toilet and retching. In a bid to control my gag reflex, I was across the room in seconds, opening the window and welcoming the cold air. I inhaled. I didn't realise right away that it was snowing or the fact that dusk had settled. "Oh shit."