Shattered gaze

The midday sun was heavy, even through the overcast clouds and the single pulled curtain on the other side of the room. A man lay in the bed, still as a rock. He had been awake for some time now but had no desire to leave his dishevelled king sized bed yet. Some time passed, with the only change being the man rolled onto his other side to regain some lost comfort. Only when his stomach began to growl loudly and his head pulsated beyond bearing from the hangover did he muster his wits and sit up in the bed. The room spun almost immediately and he very nearly lost what little contents remained in his stomach. With a deep exhale he avoided his close brush with vomiting and reached for the bottle of water on his night stand, downing the few drops that remained in a single gulp. After tossing the bottle at the opposite wall the man closed his eyes and winced. Christ, he hated this next part. With what little upper body strength he had, and even lesser willpower, he hauled his body into the wheelchair beside his bed, lowering himself down by placing his hands on the armrests and slowly bringing his numb lower half to rest in the seat. He supposed he'd gotten quite good at it after a whole year. With a final heavy sigh he flicked off the brakes and began to turn the wheels to make his way to the kitchen.

Every door in the hallway bar his own bedroom was closed, granting the illusion it was closer to midnight than midday in the house, an illusion only shattered by the incessant yet muffled passing cars from outside. His bedroom was at the very end of the hall and the kitchen was directly opposite but he stopped the wheels just short as he still felt groggy and wanted to splash some cold water on his face. Reaching for the door just before the kitchen, on the right hand side, he threw open the door of the bathroom before letting himself in. He filled his cupped palms with water and caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He suddenly remembered a handsome young man, with sharp features and kind eyes, a neat, fashionable dirty-blonde and a lean physique that he prided himself on. That young man was dead. A stranger met the man's gaze, his beard filthy, his hair unkempt. He tilted his head to examine his pale, sickly complexion as well as his pudgy cheeks that rested under his puffy eye sockets. He shut his eyes, tossed the water into his face and made for the kitchen but not before noticing a decent sized crack in the corner of the mirror. He was quite sure, even after drinking the night before, that he had seen the same one yesterday but it was slightly smaller then, even smaller the day before that. He silently digressed and left, shutting the door behind him.

That night the man lay in bed, on his back facing the ceiling. Sleep evaded him and so he was left with his thoughts. Not even the sweet, numbing effects of alcohol could lessen these, as he was out of beer and whiskey and had no energy to leave the house, having had none that day at all. The only sound came in tandem with the only light, from the carpassing outside every minute or so. In frustration he shifted in the bed and reached for a bottle of water beside his bed, but upon releasing he’d forgotten to place one there caused a sudden growl and a burst of rage, causing him to slap his bedside lamp from his night stand. The broken ceramic creates a deafening noise in the quiet, empty house. The man lay back, took a deep breath and shut his eyes, attempting to sleep again, although he knew to some small degree it was truly in vain. There was a reason he only slept with some measure of alcohol in his system; quiet moments, like sleep, brought about unwelcome moments of exceptional lucidity and with that came memories. Most of which were unwelcome. And not just sights and sounds but smells and tastes. A taste of alcohol, a sudden jerk of impact, a single green eye meeting his own pair, the screech of metal against metal, among a plethora of others. The man pushed his palms into his closed eyes and, without realising it, began to softly sob. 

If his weeping had not been so quiet he might not have heard it, for it started off so low and distant. Bringing his hands from his face and sitting up he listened, to be certain he heard something. Only when he was certain did he open his eyes. Singing, or maybe humming. There was an unmistakable rhythm and repetition to it, it didn't sound like talking but it was so soft it was hard to tell. He listened as best he could and his best guess was that the sound came from next to his own. He remembered what room that was and prayed he had slipped into a quiet sleep and was having a strange, yet familiar dream. He knew this wasn’t the case; his luck had run out a long time ago. After the ritual of climbing into his wheelchair he left the threshold of his own room and came to rest the chair outside the room. The sound was unmistakable now, it was humming after all. High pitched and every so often a key was sung out of tune. He suddenly became sweaty and what few limbs he could feel became limp. At first he thought this was fear but no, it was something else. He placed a clammy hand on the handle and threw open the door. 

The room before him wasn’t too unlike his own, in the sense it was almost totally dark but the man’s eyes had adjusted to this blackness before even opening the door. The room’s walls were draped in posters, some of boy bands and others of young teenage girls who he always assumed were musicians as well. There lay a single bed in the opposite corner, with an assortment of plush toys laid out in a very particular order, just as she liked. Plastered on the wall beside the bed were no less than four dozen pictures, which were almost impossible to identify right now but if memory served his right they were mostly group pictures of between two to six girls, as well as a few landscape shots scattered in, as well as close up shots of several flowers from different regions and countries. Even in the dark there was a very visible layer of dust covering everything, a few airborne specks of  it being made more visible with the backlight from a passing car’s headlights. The aforementioned light brought his attention to the last thing of note in the room; the window, in front of which sat the source of the eerie singing. 

A small girl, no older than thirteen, sat on the window sill facing outside, watching nothing but blackness. She wore a white t-shirt with on open pink hoodie and a long skirt to match the shirt, with a single green shoe on her left foot, her right wearing only a white sock. Every stitch of clothes was torn and soaked in blood. Even being only a few feet away now the man could still only just make out the humming and couldn't recognize the tune. The last detail he noticed, or rather had tried to avoid noticing, was the girl’s neck. It was twisted and jutting out in front of her, causing her to have a very pronounced chin in front of her and her face at a slight angle. Without warning or without stopping her humming turned to face the wheelchair bound man. Her young face was bruised and scarred, with cuts that leaked blood as if hurt only seconds ago. Her expression was totally neutral, despite the calming tune she was humming. The man was unable to move at all now, petrified in his chair as the girl rose from her perch and slowly made her way towards him, limping as her left ankle was twisted almost fully around. The girl stopped short of arm’s reach of him, at almost perfect eye level with the man’s reduced height. Her tainted innocence was truly horrifying up close, her soft features juxtaposed by the ghastly injuries that lay strewn on her body (the man imagined she had similar, if not worse, scars that he couldn’t see). Following terror came surprise, as the girl stopped humming suddenly and, still wearing her the blank expression leaned in towards the man until her face was only inches from his own, so close he could smell a light perfume mixed with the metallic odour of fresh blood. His heart beat so hard in his chest it hurt and he could hear his breath become raspy. Then she did something strange, even in regards to this situation. She smelled his breath. Only a small whiff, as if she knew what smell she was looking for and only needed to smell a trace. After a brief moment she pulled back and stared the man dead in the eyes. And smiled. “Good, you don’t need it”. Her words surprised him, not only for their abruptness but how normal her voice was, as if this was just any little girl. She walked backwards to sit once again on the windowsill, never breaking eye contact. When a good amount of time passed for the terror to subside the man began to roll his wheels back towards the door, still holding the girl’s gaze himself. He suddenly felt his wheel hit something and bent down to see a book of pressed flowers, as it was titled in glitter and sequins on the front cover. Without thinking he reached for it and almost unconsciously some strange muscle memory, reached for a specific page. His hand found a dried lotus flower, still as beautiful as the day it was picked. The man’s terror was almost completely replaced with confusion, especially when he looked up to see the girl had vanished. 

When he had finally regained control over his arms he rushed to the bathroom, turning the light on and slammed the door. He splashed water in his face several times, as though it would erase the memories of the horrible last few minutes. He wasn’t sure if any of it was real or if he had indeed slipped into some sort of tortuous dream. He looked in the mirror almost as if expecting an answer and saw the crack again. Unmistakably bigger now than it had been only this morning, taking up almost the entire bottom right corner. He was certain he hadn’t touched it at all today, nor when he came in just now. He tried to give a cry of frustration but only a strangled whisper left his lips, as he’d still had no water in hours. Knowing better than to drink water from these rusty, old pipes he decided to get some in the fridge before sleeping (on the couch, he wasn’t going near that room until daylight). He gingerly opened the door, craning his neck to look at the door where he’d seen the girl. No girl. No humming. Nothing. Leaving the bathroom light on he wheeled in haste to the kitchen and shut the door leading to the hall. 

He seemed to relax a little now, as he calmly turned on the light and made his way to the fridge, pulling a fresh bottle from the fridge, draining it in seconds. For the briefest of seconds he forgot about the ghoulish young girl. This moment of calm felt utterly serene in contrast to the last few muinests , feeling like the last moments before waking from a nightmare. The sound of wet footsteps on the tiled floor behind tore him from his peace of mind as he slowly turned, expecting to see the girl again. What stood before him made him wish he had never left the child’s bedroom. 

A brunette woman,no older than forty,although the fact half her head was missing made it hard to accurately discern her age. She just started at the man from the space connecting the kitchen to the living room,making herself just about visible from the kitchen light but still doused in a great deal of darkness. Even from at least ten feet away the man could feel her eye bore into his, an emerald that burned white hot with anger and blame. Disregarding her head,the rest of her injuries made the little girl's look tame by comparison with her body almost naked from the damage from her ruined clothes and having a great deal of her chest caved in with several ribs showing. Thus,in conjunction with her facial mutilation,gave the impression something VERY heavy landed on her,almost crushing half the woman's body to powder. The man realised retrospectively that while the phantom child before had frightened him to no end he never felt afraid for his safety with her; that same feeling was not present now. What remained of the woman's face was contorted into an angry snarl and her eye burned a hole into the man's own. Without warning she began to advance on him,gargling something that sounded like 'yar haalt' with two mangled arms, aimed for the terrified man's throat. Without delay he began to turn until he faced the hall and wheeled the chair into the bathroom again,hearing the woman's wet footsteps close behind as he  closed and locked the door. He could only sit there slowly wheeling his chair away from the door as the creature outside hammered at the door,repeating her confusing phrase louder and louder as she beat the door seemingly almost off the hinges. The man could do nothing but stare at the door, weeping silently like a child,waiting for his assailant to break the menial wooden barrier that divided him and strangle whatever life lay in his broken body.

Then it was silent. No talking,no raspy,gurgly breathing,no slap of blood soaked foot steps. Not a sound but the man's own stunted breathing. He stared at the door for god knows how long before he even got the strength to move, keeping his eyes firmly on the door he advanced on it slowly to listen for signs of the terrifying woman. As he did he glanced at the mirror once more. Almost the entire surface was layered with deep cracks,as if it would fall apart any moment. As he approached the door to listen he unfortunately heard what he was fearing,only this time the feared breathing came from behind him. 

He didn't dare look,only escape. He threw open the door as hard as he could, hearing a bellowing shriek of frustration and bubbling blood behind him as he wheeled the chair to his room,as it was the only room bar the bathroom with a lock. As he turned the chair to face his room head on he felt a freezing cold and wet hand grab his own,instinctively he looked to see that putrid face again,inches from his own,so close he could smell the surprisingly fresh gaping wounds. With a cry of fear he wrenched his hand free and fled towards the room, hearing footsteps close behind him. When he finally reached the door he threw it closed without turning the chair around and as he turned to lock it he heard the banging again. But it didn't scare him. Only when it stopped did he fear for his life again. 

There he sat,in the pitch black bedroom, slowly wheeling his back towards the wall so the woman wouldn't surprise him from behind again. And then waited; waited for her to appear again and finish him. He didn't know what else to do. He closed his eyes and waited for damp footsteps. He waited a long time, not even hearing cars outside anymore. Only his own heartbeat,which by now was almost louder than his breathing. It wasn't the footsteps that caught his attention but instead bedsprings. He opened his eyes to see a shadowy figure sitting on the bed staring at him. This spectre felt different to the others, more intimate. The tall, strong figure just stared,no malice in this one. He approached the figure,notching this one to be a man. He noticed his wrists,bearing deep,open wounds that leaked blood into the bedsheets. The shadowy eyes were obscured by darkness, seeming like two hollow holes in his face. He wore a sad smile. When they finally faced each other the man noticed the phantom's neck bore an abrasion around his entire throat, the colour of a deep,dark purple. The man looked up at the figure and knew,even without seeing his eyes fully, he was looking back at his own. Suddenly,the phantom held out his hand. Surprised, the man looked at the hand,then back to the figure,who just nodded reassuringly. Submissively,the man went to take it,tears in his eyes,when suddenly his other hand found the flower he picked up in the girls room. He pulled it out and what little light there shone on the beautiful lotus again,oddly seeming almost radiant. The man reached for the figure's hand,then slowly pushed it away in rejection. The creature nodded.

The man awoke with a start in his bed. He looked out to see the rising sun and rather than go back to sleep,he stretched, climbed into his chair and reached the bathroom. He noticed the crack had gotten smaller. So little difference that it was hard to notice. But he noticed.