Prologue

“Let me in!”

“It’s the middle of the night! What’s wro-”

“Let me in, please! There’s someone out there!”

“Okay, okay.”

John stepped aside and Allison scurried in, her hand clutching the right side of her face. She made her way unsteadily to the living room to a couch and collapsed on it, breathing a sigh of relief, moving her hand and exposing the cut on her cheek. She laid down sideways, blood from the cut staining the black leather. She closed her eyes for a second, took a deep breath, and opened them to find John standing over her, his arms crossed.

“Sorry about the couch,” she said. Her voice was numb, devoid of emotion.

“Allie, what’s going on? It’s the middle of the night! How’d you get cut? Why were you even walking out by yourself this late?”

“We’re not together anymore, John. I don’t need to answer you,” Allie replied, still in monotone, her face blank. Her eyes were glazed over. Suddenly, she sat up, smiled, laughed, winced, and brought her hand up to cover her wound again.

John was still standing there, arms still crossed, a look of pure bewilderment still on his face. Shock, obviously. The girl was either psycho or scared out of her wits. John had dated Allison for two years and she hadn’t tried to cut him open with a kitchen knife yet, so he was betting on the latter.

“All right, all right, why don’t we fix up your face and have a nice cup of coffee?” He said gently, helping her off the couch. Allison clutched him tightly, leaning on him, her head resting on his chest, the blood stain blooming on his white T-Shirt.

As she reached out to grab his hands, she was vaguely aware of a deep scar on his left palm, which she remembered as the result of the time he tried to repair a broken lawnmower three months ago, two months before they broke up. She was still lucid enough to know that it was a very sensitive area, so she held on to his wrists instead.

John had already decided what he had to do. Get her cleaned, calm her down, find out what happened, drive her home. Even if he broke up with her, he still cared about what happened to her.

He led her to the kitchen, and let her sit down. She leaned forward, her head in her hands.

“I’ll get some stuff from the medicine cabinet, okay?” John said. He wasn’t sure if she heard him, but he walked into the bathroom anyway.

“Maybe get changed or something,” he muttered as he shut the door.

Allison was calming down now, her heartbeat slowing from a pounding boomboomboom into a steady ba-doom. She felt her wits coming back to her and she tried to make sense of the situation. She sat there, thinking about what happened. What did happen? She asked herself. There was me, and Sarah, and the Harland twins. And then-

There was a yell from the bathroom, then a crash. The sound hit Allison like a wet slap, throwing her train of thought out the window. Her heart jumped and seemed to catch in her throat. She held her breath.

The door opened slightly, just enough for Allison to see John limping out of the bathroom, his hair messed up. In his hands were a few alcohol swabs in a plastic bag and some plasters.

“Sorry about that. Damned slippery floor,” he said, laughing it off. “I tripped and took the medicine cabinet down with me.”

He closed the door quickly, before Allison could see the mess he made.

“Got the stuff you needed, though,” he said as he walked over to the table.

John placed the items on the table, paused, and looked at her.

“Allison, what happened?”

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Another horror story. I'm coming on to Protag very rarely now, been pretty busy.

Anyway, the story is an opportunity to explore an idea I found very interesting, as you'll learn when you read.

To be honest, I'm not particularly happy about this one, but I enjoyed the concept enough to write it.

updated Feb 6 by TheJackster