Two weeks had passed since that night in the narrow alley, but for Rocky, time no longer moved linearly. Time had become a thick gruel trapping him in an endless cycle of suffering.
Morning sunlight pierced through the classroom window, illuminating the chalk dust floating in the air. The professor at the front, an old man in an oversized brown suit, was talking about the "Social Contract" and how society was formed through mutual agreement.
For the other students, it was a boring morning lecture. For Rocky, it was torture.
He sat in the back row, his jacket hood pulled over part of his face. The dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced they looked like bruises. His skin was pale, rough, and oily from lack of sleep. His hands, hidden under the desk, constantly squeezed the hem of his shirt until his knuckles turned white.
"Rocky?"
The professor's voice broke through his daze. Rocky jerked, his heart slamming against his ribs. He lifted his head, his eyes wildly scanning the room.
"Y-yes, sir?" His voice was hoarse, breaking mid-sentence.
The entire class turned toward him. Thirty pairs of eyes. But to Rocky, they didn't look like human eyes.
Over the past two weeks, his vision had begun to. . . change. He didn't see his classmates as individuals. He saw them as bags of meat. He could see or hallucinate patterns of blood vessels pulsing beneath their thin neck skin. He could hear the sound of pumping blood, the sound of stomach fluids digesting breakfast, the sound of cartilage grinding as they turned their heads.
"I asked for your opinion on Marx's theory of alienation," the professor repeated, his tone slightly annoyed.
Rocky stared at the professor. The old man's mouth moved, but the sound that came out was distorted, like a cassette tape played too slowly. The professor's lips looked too red, too wet. And for a moment, Rocky swore he saw a long black shadow standing right behind the professor, mimicking every movement like a shadow puppet.
"I. . ." Rocky swallowed. His throat felt like it was filled with sand. "I don't know."
Stifled laughter came from several corners of the classroom. Whispers. 'Look at that weirdo,''Is he high again?''He looks like a walking corpse.'
The professor let out a long sigh, disappointed. "Pay attention to my lecture, or please leave."
Rocky looked down again. He wanted to leave. He wanted to run. But where? His apartment was full of shadows. The streets were full of dark crevices. There was nowhere safe.
Every time he closed his eyes, he was back in that alley. Every time he slept, the monster ate him again, and again, and again. He had died a hundred times in his dreams. The pain was always fresh. The fear was always new.
"Psst. . . Rock."
A sharp elbow jabbed his ribs. It was his best friend, sitting beside him with a worried expression that had become permanent whenever he looked at Rocky.
"You're shaking again," his friend whispered. "Have you eaten? You look like you're about to pass out."
Rocky didn't answer. He was busy holding back nausea. The smell of cheap perfume from the female student in front of him mixed with his friend's sweat, creating an aroma that triggered his sensory memory the smell of rotting flesh in the alley.
"Rock, seriously. . . We're going to the clinic this afternoon, okay? You're getting worse. You talk to yourself in your sleep. You scream."
"I'm not sick," Rocky hissed, his eyes fixed on the wooden desk covered with scratches.
"You are sick, man! You're delusional!" His friend raised his voice slightly, forgetting to whisper. "You said there was a monster eating people. You said you see… things. That's not normal."
"Shut up," Rocky said, his teeth grinding.
"No, I won't shut up. You're my best friend. I'm not going to let you go crazy alone. Your parents-"
"DON'T BRING UP MY PARENTS!"
Rocky slammed the desk. The sound of the impact echoed throughout the classroom, killing all conversation. The professor stopped writing on the blackboard. All eyes turned to him again. Silence.
Rocky's breathing was labored. He could feel it again. Their stares. But this time, the stares weren't just curiosity. The stares felt hungry.
His classmates' faces seemed to stretch. Their smiles looked too wide. Their skin looked like plastic melting under heat.
They know, whispered a voice in Rocky's head. They're all part of it. They're waiting for their turn to eat you.
"Get out," the professor said firmly, pointing to the door. "Get out of my class, Rocky."
Without arguing, Rocky grabbed his bag and ran out. He didn't see his friend's worried face. He only saw the exit as the only way to breathe.
He ran down the long campus hallway. The white ceramic floor beneath his feet felt soft, as if he were running on top of a giant tongue. The neon lights on the ceiling flickered with a rhythm that made his head hurt.
Bzzzt. . . Bzzzt. . .
He entered the men's restroom at the end of the hallway, slammed the door of one of the stalls, and locked it. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet, vomiting stomach contents that consisted only of stomach acid and water.
"Hah. . . Hah. . ."
Rocky leaned his head against the cold stall wall. Tears of frustration streamed down his cheeks. He was tired. God, he was so tired.
He reached into his pants pocket, pulling out his worn leather wallet. Inside, tucked away, was a small photo. A photo of him, his father, mother, and younger sister at the beach vacation five years ago.
In the photo, they were smiling. The world looked bright. There were no monsters. No darkness.
Rocky's finger traced his father's face in the photo. "Dad. . . have you ever felt like this?" he whispered to the silent photograph. "Have you ever felt that this world is. . . fake?"
Of course his father didn't answer. But Rocky remembered his father's old stories. Stories about "strange things" his father had seen while working late. Back then, Rocky thought they were just tales to scare little children. Now, he wasn't sure.
Suddenly, the restroom lights went out.
Total darkness descended.
Rocky's breath caught. He froze, listening.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Footsteps. . ., Slow. . ., Heavy. . ., Wet. . .
The sound wasn't coming from outside the stall. The sound was coming from above.
Slowly, with a neck stiff from terror, Rocky looked up at the restroom ceiling. In that darkness, he couldn't see anything, but he could feel it.
Something was crawling on the ceiling. Something big.
"Go away. . ." Rocky whispered, closing his eyes tightly, hugging his knees like a small child. "Go away, go away, go away. . ."
A low growl sounded, vibrating through the wall tiles. It was the sound of laughter. The same laughter from the alley. The same laughter from his dreams.
And then, the lights came back on.
Silence. No one was there. Only the sound of dripping water from a leaky faucet. Drip. Drip. Drip.
Rocky opened his eyes. He was alone. But on the stall door he was leaning against, on the inside, there was new writing. The writing wasn't made with a marker, but carved with something sharp enough to pierce through the door's paint.
WE ARE WAITING
Rocky didn't scream. He had passed the screaming phase. He just stared at the writing with a cold emptiness in his chest. He stood, straightened his jacket, and walked out of the restroom.
He didn't return to class. He didn't go home to the apartment. He walked aimlessly, letting his feet take him away from the crowds, toward the outskirts of the city where old factories stood like forgotten giant skeletons.
His instinct guided him there. To the place where the boundary between the real world and dreams seemed increasingly thin.
To the place where he would see death again.