Page 57 of White Pawn
Chapter Forty
Justin
“Stressed Out”- Leo
Cobain whimpers. His tongue over my face drags me from my sleep.Ah, fuck!My head is pounding. My body is stiff as shit. I roll over and my palm lands on something sticky and cold. Wet. “Fuck, Cobain,” I grumble. “Did you piss on the... ” I blink my eyes open to the pitch black, but I can feel the cold kitchen tile underneath me.Why the fuck am I on the floor?I push up to my hands and knees, and my palms slip over the slick floor. “Shit.”
I stumble to my feet, my socks growing damp with whatever the hell it is that’s been spilt. I feel around on the wall for the light switch, my memory so foggy I can’t recall how I ended up in this room. Finally, my fingers brush the tiny switch and I flip it. My heart sledgehammers against my ribs. Red streaks and handprints cover the wall. Shit’s broken. My stomach kinks and knots, coiling like a serpent around helpless prey. My hands tremble. My breath is unsteady as I slowly turn around. I want to scream when I see a girl lying in my floor, eyes wide and glassy. Cobain is standing between the kitchen and living room just staring. He won’t go near her.
Amy? Why is Amy here? Covered in blood! I look at the door, the window. Nothing’s broken. I try to recall anything, something, but my mind is in a complete gridlock, the wheels not turning. All I can see is Amy. Dead. In my kitchen. I grab onto the wall, the room spinning. I glance down to find my arm covered in tiny cuts and scratches. I stagger sideways a few steps. My back hits the wall. And then, the foggiest of memories bubbles to the surface. It’s distorted and jumbled, but it’s of a knife gripped inmyhand.
Covering my mouth, I slink along the wall, shaking my head. “No. No. No.” I squeeze my eyes shit.
“Wake the fuck up,” I say. “Wake up.” Because this must be a dream—a nightmare. That book I’m writing, it’s wiggled its way into my thoughts, my dreams and I’m dreaming this shit. My nostrils flare when I inhale. “Wake up... ” And then Cobain whimpers. His warm, slick tongue sweeps over my fingertips. I open my eyes. She’s still there. My stomach bubbles and churns. I take off running down the hallway to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before I vomit. Sweat leaks from every pore. My stomach heaves. When I think I’m well enough to sit up, I see my bloodstained hands gripping the sides of the porcelain. Messy fingerprints and smears all over the rim. I hurl again. And then, I just lay my head on the seat of the toilet and cry. I’m afraid my mind’s fucked up. I finally went too dark, and perhaps, I’ve gone mad.
