The Murder Of Willowstream

Ch.14. A Burning Nightmare

It was hot. Suffocating and thick, Rhy's lungs had to fight for every sliver of air that he was forced to wrench down in deep, stifled, breaths. The air was smothering in it's thickness, he felt like it had bound his skin in cellophane, calling attention to every bead of sweat that seemed to struggle in its escape; desperate in the attempt to keep his body cool. Every haggard breath, every subtle movement made, seemed to rip whatever slovenly mote of energy he could pull to call some form of focus, as he tried in vain to keep from passing out.

His vision blurred at the edges, like looking through glasses not made for his eyes, and as he made to ground himself against a near by wall: he jumped back with a hiss as the black iron pipe he had brushed against, seared at his flesh; before they let out a screeching gout of steam a few feet away. Like an agitated animal baring it's warning fangs.

A vague sense of familiarity hazed into his mind as he noted the red brick work and the dusty, concrete, floor. The realisation hit that this was the hall leading to the schools boiler room, but before he could process it any further, the sound of a commotion echoed towards him.

Rhys paid no mind to the burden of heat as he barrelled down the hallway, his shoulders heavy, his clothes weighted with sweat as he followed the sound of the scuffle. Left, right, and left again, the halls seemed to sweep in a dizzying display of iron pipes that clung to the walls like charred serpents, and concrete floors that burned through the rubber soles of his shoes.

The shrieks and commands seemed to call him in every direction. Vibrating at his shoulders from behind, before tugging at his ears and leading him forward. The fighting grew louder with each step he took, until he eventually came upon a simple, red, door. Reaching his hand to the startlingly cool handle of the door: he swung it open without a moments hesitation.

His eyes widened in horror as he looked upon three figures amidst a struggle with one another. Two of them seemed to have no physicality to their forms. As if they were swathe and blurred in a myriad of black feathers. Eyes glistening like ravenous torch lights as they burned from underneath cowled heads, their arms were strong in blackened flesh, pulsing with veins, one wielding a blade and the other struggling to restrain the third of this trio. It was the third that caused Rhys to leap into action as Rhys immediately recognised it as Yasmine. She was kicking and flailing, failing to bat away the blade that expertly jabbed between her arms with a hungry precision.

Rhys charged forward, his eyes widening in sheer panic as his movement was halted by something that refused his movement any further. It was a glass-like wall. Invisible and cool, as Rhys strained his muscles in an attempt to push it over.

He began to scream in protest, in desperation, begging for them to stop as he called for his friend. Again and again they stabbed, restraining her with a tight rope through her mouth. But still she kept fighting.

As panic blotted all noise out, Rhys began to demand, to shriek that they let her go. His fists pounding on the invisible force that held him back.

His fists began to bloody, smearing it over the glass as his knuckles cracked, fractured.

Again and again he lashed out, through the bustling shoulders of her attackers, Yasmine looked straight at Rhys. His heart stopped in dread.

The wall splintered beneath his hands, a small fracture, appearing in pale blue. It bade him continue, to ignore the aching agony of his hands as he continued to strike, not once taking his eyes of Yasmine.

He screamed, ripping his throat into rawness, as the wall shattered in a shower of glittering shards just as the knife punctured through her chest. Her reaching hand, falling to the ground, and her body falling limp.