Dark Silence

• Charlotte Wurtz, Grade 9
• Short Story
• 2018

He's been lying there for a while now, though he's not exactly sure how many hours. The bags under his eyes are growing heavier, and he knows he's not getting any sleep tonight. Partially because he's not tired, and that blood is seeping into the carpet.
His alarm clock sounds so far away; beating its ticks as though it's his final. His limbs are lying limp by his sides, and he's numb from the neck down. A terrible itching digs at the back of his throat, as his breath hangs in the air. He swears he can see the furniture moving, but he doesn't dare look away from the ceiling.
The walls are breathing as if they have life of their own. Creaking in, and out, in, and out. A guttural groaning emanates from them, and he swallows to try to rid himself of that itch, but it only burns more, and he begins to choke.
Chase can only lie there, listening to the sounds as his heart thumps in his ribcage. He knew this would happen. What with how sore his throat has been for the past few days. But, by God did he wish it was any night but tonight.
The bed frame creaks, and he inhales sharply, throat burning. It's too late.
His heavy eyes are still trained on the ceiling, skin crawling as another creak echoes beneath him. Maybe if he just stays still, keeps his eyes locked to the ceiling, maybe he won't —
The creak is next to him now, and there's a soft knock of metal on wood. He knows what it is, but he doesn't look. His red, irritated eyes would be full of tears if he had the energy to cry.
He swallows again, his dry throat smarting as the walls creak once more, accompanying shrill, undulating laughter.
There's another squeal, another knock of metal, and a slow hiss issues from just behind him. His heart is thudding painfully fast in his ribcage.
Red eyes still glued to the ceiling, a single, silent tear slips down his cheek and he stifles a sob.
"Time's up."
His hands shake, and Chase opens his mouth to speak for the first time tonight. All that comes out is a strangled cry; perhaps a "help", but even he can barely hear it so it's hard to say.
The weight on his eyelids is growing heavier. He considers letting sleep take over, get him away from this fresh hell, but a knobbly appendage digs into his chest and he inhales sharply.
Too late.
The tip of a sharpened blade presses to his throat, and he shifts his gaze off the ceiling for a second, eyes wide as he glimpses him. Dirty brown hair frayed and knotted; pale skin that's been torn to shreds in the effort to stay together; a broken mirror image of Chase.
He draws in a breath, his heart pounding in his ears.
He's silenced before he can scream.