The stars blur in front of my eyes. The air is cold. I can't help but notice that it's cold. My blood is hot enough to steam in the air.
The grass beneath my hair is damp.
The love of my life blocks out the light of the full moon, but I can still see it reflected in the light of his knife.
"I'm sorry."
He says it like I've accused him of anything, like I've shouted at him. But I can't say a word. When I open my mouth I choke on something.
I must be dreaming.
A moment ago I was dreaming, riding in the car, on a late night date with my husband for a belated Valentines Day.
A moment ago I was holding a sandwich.
I don't feel pain. Just the impact.
Only one thing repeats in my mind.
Over and over.
And over and over
and over
"Why?"
"Why??"
"Why?!"
The hum of the fluorescent lights are the first thing I hear—a low, buzzing drone that vibrated in my teeth.
The darkness and the silence chase away with the buzzing sound. It's not the sound of the woods.
It's not the sound of my blood spilling on the grass, or the tears of my husband.
I open my eyes.
I don't see the stars, or my husband's face twisted in that mask of panicked hatred.
...I see yellow.
Monochromatic, sickeningly stained wallpaper on either side of my face.
A blue flicker pulses in the air before my face.
YOU DIED.
YOUR DEATH WAS VIOLENT.
YOUR SOUL CARRIES UNRESOLVED REGRET.
FLOOR: 0
GOAL: REACH FLOOR 100 TO RETURN.
REWARD: ONE WISH.
My blood is gone. I touch my chest, my sweater is pristine, the white wool soft and clean, but damp. The carpet is damp. The wallpaper is stained with water.
I stand. I am alive but I am not alive.
My bare feet stick slightly to the damp carpet as I push myself up. The hallway stretches out in both directions, identical in its monotony. Yellow wallpaper with faded floral patterns, humming lights flickering at irregular intervals, the smell of mildew and old paper. There's no windows. No doors. Just endless, oppressive sameness.
"Hello?" My own voice is a stranger's, thin and reedy in the suffocating silence. No answer. Of course.
I start walking. There's nothing else to do. Left or right, it doesn't matter. The hallway seems to stretch forever. My footsteps are muffled by the wet carpet. Each step feels deliberate, a choice being made in a world where choices have become meaningless.
The memory of the knife, the moonlight on his face, the word 'sorry'—it's not a memory. It's a physical presence, a weight in my chest.
It still hurts.
My hand is shaking.
I stop and press my palm flat against the wall, willing the tremor to stop. The wallpaper is cool and slick beneath my fingers. Breathe. Just breathe. But the air is thick, heavy with the smell of decay and the ceaseless hum of the lights.
A sound cuts through the drone. A scuttling sound, like something with too many legs moving just out of sight. I freeze, straining to hear. It stops. I wait. The silence returns, but it's different now. It's a watchful silence.
I start walking again, faster this time. The hallway doesn't change. The same pattern, the same lights, the same oppressive yellow. I could be walking in circles. I probably am.
Then I see it.
A room with an open door. It's something - anything - different from the hallways with no markings in them.
And there is the smell of sweet bread in it, as well, better than the mildew I've been smelling. Inside the room, a small table sits in the center, holding a single plastic-wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water. My stomach clenches, a primal need overriding the knot of grief. I tear open the plastic. The bread is stale, the filling a bland, gray paste, but it's food. I devour it in three bites, then drain half the water bottle, the cool liquid a shock to my system.
My eyes scan the room while I eat. It's an office, or was. A metal desk is pushed against one wall, its drawers hanging open. Tipped over chairs. A dark, wet stain on the carpet near the far corner.
It's unsettling - doubly so, given the circumstances of how I got here - but there's nothing particularly... threatening about it.
It's as I'm finishing my sandwich that I see it: the pipe. It's a piece of rusted conduit, maybe three feet long, half-hidden under the overturned desk. I pull it free. It has a satisfying heft.
A weapon, I suppose.
Is that what it is?
I don't...
I'm not someone who uses violence. That's not me.
But...
I grip it tighter. The metal is cold and rough against my palm. The memory of my husband's face, the moonlight glinting off the blade—it's a fresh wound.
I feel...
Naked. Without something.
Something to hit back with.
I swing it in a clumsy arc. The weight is awkward, unfamiliar. But it's better than nothing. Better than bare hands. Better than being a victim again.
I leave the stale sanctuary of the office, pipe held loosely at my side. The hallway stretches on, monotonous and unending. The sweet scent of the bread fades, replaced once more by the cloying smell of damp paper and mildew. The hum of the lights feels like a physical pressure against my eardrums.
Then, the scuttling returns.
Louder this time. Closer.
I stop, my breath catching in my throat. I strain my ears, turning my head slowly. Nothing. Just the hum. But I know what I heard.
I start walking again, my pace quickening. My bare feet make soft, wet sounds on the carpet. One step, two steps—then I freeze.
The shadow in the corner of my vision. It wasn't there a second ago. A patch of darkness where the flickering fluorescent light should have been. It's wrong, an absolute void in a place that's merely dim.
I don't dare look directly at it. I keep walking, my heart hammering against my ribs. My knuckles are white around the pipe.
A flicker of movement ahead. The shadow detaches from the wall, flowing across the floor like spilled oil. It's not a shadow cast by anything. It is the shadow, a living patch of midnight with no defined shape. It moves with a sickening, unnatural speed.
My mind rebels. This can't be real. A dream. A hallucination. But the pipe in my hand is real. The fear is real. The memory of the knife is real.
I run.