Serial Vlogger: Part Forty-Five
A horror novel in tiny slices!
Lenore burst awake. She was in her own bed in her own room. She had a massive headache. The curtains were drawn. She was naked except for her necklace. And something smelled really bad.
“This is the worst hangover ever…” she muttered. She dragged herself out of bed and into the tiny bathroom of her little apartment. She splashed water on her face and looked at herself.
“Whoah.” She sighed and sat down on the toilet to pee. She studied her nails as she sat. They were broken, dirty. Her whole body was smudged with dirt and soot. She picked some leaves from her hair. The rancid smell was coming from her. From her necklace. She slipped it from her neck and stared at it. The stone in it was just a dull red. It, too, had dirt on it.
Lenore wiped and stood up. After she flushed the toilet and brushed her teeth, she staggered out to the kitchen. Every bone in her body ached. But her mind was beginning to whir.
She had a duty. She had to hurry because it was almost time.
“Time for what?”
The urgency flooded her.
“No, first coffee.” She went to her coffee maker and poured in some grounds and then some water. “Hurry, hurry, hurry.”
If the coffee didn’t drip faster, she was going to miss it. She would have to leave without it.
The dirt, all over her. From what?
She saw the wounds from the tubes and wires, the sticky spots where bandages had once been. She saw the the huge bruising up and down her body and limbs. She saw an imprint where the necklace had burned her.
“Hurry, hurry.”
She needed to shower, but no time for that. She needed to dress. No time for that. There had to be time for that; as confused as she was, she knew she had to dress.
She staggered to her bedroom and looked at the stacks of tote containers in the room. Clothes leaked out of many of them. She pulled at a T-shirt and some pants. She pulled out a vest. Was it cold outside or hot? Did she know? Did she care?
She hurriedly dressed, nearly forgetting her bra and panties, but then pulled them on as aching pains surged through her.
The necklace; she made sure the necklace was in its place of glory.
The coffee; she hurried back to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee from the still-dripping machine. She searched the fridge for milk, cream, but it had soured. She poured out the ruined coffee, filled the cup half full this time, and ran tap water into the rest.
She downed the coffee quickly as urgency swelled.
“Hurry, hurry, hurry,” the refrain sang. Hurry for what?
She didn’t know. Her conscious mind didn’t know. But her body seemed to know as it practically ran from the apartment.
The keys, the keys.
She grabbed the spare set of keys from the table. How had she even got here? Who brought her here? Was she supposed to take any medicine? She didn’t remember being discharged from the hospital. She didn’t remember anything except that she had to hurry.
So she hurried out of the apartment, down the long winding hallway. She took the stairs as quickly as she could with her aches and pains. And then she was out on the street.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.
The world was foreign to her. The sky was dull; there was a cold wind. The streets were strewn with branches and litter. There were no cars on the street because of the fallen trees, the overturned garbage bins, the ruined roofs, shingles bouncing and flapping in the wind as they danced down the street.
It was as if an apocalypse had happened. What had happened? Was there a storm?
She stared at the mess.
Hurry, hurry, hurry.