BLOOD

by Ryan Thompson

"Alice!"

What?

Who called my name?

Don't wake me up.

Oh. I'm in class.

"Alice!"

"Yes?"

"Wake up!"

"Yes, ma'am."

I drag myself back into the world of consciousness. Stupid school.

After math I have a free period. So does Matthew. I go to him, sitting at his laptop on a cafeteria table.

Kiss.

Greet.

"What are you up to?" I ask.

"Writing a play."

"Oh? What about?"

He gives an answer but I can't hear him; he's drowned out by a sudden horrible screeching noise.

"Oh," I say, acting like I heard him. He moves his mouth again, but I cannot hear him.

Screech.

What is that screeching? Can't anyone else hear it?

"Do you hear that?" I ask. "That irritating screeching noise?"

"No. Are you all right?"

"Yes."

"Have you been taking any medicines?"

I haven't.

Have I been taking any sort of drugs at all?

I haven't.

The screeching grows louder. Matthew says something. "I can't hear you!" I shout. People start to stare.

He points in the direction of the office, then towards himself. He goes quickly.

I turn around.

Oh.

There is a face. A man's face. There is no hair. No neck. No body. Nothing but a face, floating at the same height as mine. Not even bobbing.

Its mouth is open.

Screeching.

That inhuman, demonic noise is coming straight out of its mouth.

I don't know what to do, how to stop that awful sound, so I slap the face.

It stops screeching. The mouth closes.

It opens again.

And out of that mouth comes a mighty, unending roar. A ghastly roar unlike any on Earth.

Then, while it's roaring, its nose bleeds.

It doesn't stop bleeding. It doesn't stop roaring.

Some blood gets on my dress. Ew.

I can't move. I'm frozen. Immobile like a marble statue in front of this roaring, bleeding, demonic face.

A teacher walks by. He doesn't notice me with my hands clasped around my ears. He doesn't notice the screeching, bleeding face in the air. He doesn't notice the blood, even when it coats the left half of his body. He walks on by to the copy room.

More blood gets on me. It's flowing, spewing from the nostrils of this hellish face, this roaring face. I'm drenched in this blood. My arms, my legs, my breasts, my back, my face, my hair, all soaked. I collapse to the floor. I feel like a rag doll now, crumbled in a twisted heap and unable to move.

The blood is pooling now. An inch deep. Two, three—

My eyes pop open. Wide.

I sit up and look around.

My bedroom.

My bed.

My self.

I look at myself. I'm not a teenager.

And I'm not a girl.

I roll over, slowly absorbing reality. I quietly wake up my wife.

"Come on, Lorraine," I coax, "it's six o'clock."

I get up. I bathe. I shave. I eat. I go to the bus stop.

The bus pulls up.

I step on and pay my fare. I sit down and glance at my fellow passengers.

The man sitting next to me has the exact face from the dream.

He smiles evilly.