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Martha Smithe
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Marisa?s house, I?m thirsty. I?d venture to say that it?s about two thirty in the morning. We had collapsed into our respective sleeping bags around midnight, both of us too afraid to brave the night conscious. Neither of us have really spoken about the incident with the book, and it had hung in the air between us all evening. The weight of the memory heavy enough to suffocate us. I got up and headed for Marisa?s kitchen, desperate for a glass of water. I fumbled my way through the dark hallway, careful not to make too much noise for loathe of waking Marisa or her mother. As the kitchen loomed near, I banged my knee on the corner of a small table, and cursed under my breath. No one awoke, so I proceeded.
I got my glass and filled it with lukewarm tap water, not bothering to run the water until it was good and cold. As I leaned against the counter and drained the cup, I noticed the glint of a butcher knife on the kitchen table. I set my cup down and started to put the knife away. As I leaned over the table to pick it up, I noticed my reflection in the thick blade of the knife, only it wasn?t my face that stared back at me. It was the face of a pale woman with purple eyes. She bore a strong resemblance to the woman on the cover of Annie?s book. I stumbled back, breathing heavily. "Calm down!", I told myself.
"I?m paranoid, it?s nothing to worry about, and it?s almost three in the morning! My judgment is off. Hell, my whole state of consciousness is off! I just need to go back to bed". I went to pick up the knife again, only this time there were three faces reflected in the blade. Annie and Marisa in the front, their faces blank, zombie like. And another figure loomed behind them, black and foreboding. I couldn?t tell who the third person was, and considering the fact that I was looking into the reflective surface of a knife, my confusion was justified. I put the knife away, and as I thrust it into it?s slot on the wooden knife holder, I heard a scream from down the hall..
It was Marisa?s scream, I made a mad dash to her room, this time avoiding the table I had bruised myself on earlier. I burst into her room and saw Marisa, dead. Her throat had been cut from ear to ear, and her eyes were still open. I stifled a sob and rushed to Marisa?s side, getting her blood on my bare feet as I reached the bed. My best friend, dead. I noticed that her head was tilted towards the window. I knew what was coming. I looked out at the window and there I saw the unmistakable countenance of the third person that I had seen in the knife. A scream made its way to my mouth, but failed to escape. A gnarled hand reached through the window, holding the butcher knife that I had just put away, that had just cut Marisa?s throat. Although I couldn?t see the face, I knew it was smiling. The hand reached for me, and I didn?t move, couldn?t move. It inched closer, stretched farther until it was within lethal distance of my face. My mind went blank, my muscles failed, and all I could do was watch. The hand made a fast swipe across my neck, and I fell?fell?fell?
Marisa?s house, I?m scared. I looked around Marisa?s bedroom, all was as it should be, Marisa was on her bed, her body heaving up and down to the tune of her heavy snores, her neck obviously unscathed. And I was still here on her couch, only I was covered in cold, sticky sweat, and my heart was doing laps around my chest. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Another dream had grabbed hold of my unconscious and thrashed it around until it was no more. This one was one of the most terrifying dreams that I had ever had. This one I was afraid of, wary of the precognitive tendencies that my dreams are often wont to have, and wary of the place and condition of my dream, seeing as though they were the exact place and condition of where I am right now.
Marisa?s house, I?m thirsty. Only this time I crawled deeper into my covers and decided to endure it until morning.
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