Fear Yourself

As jagged flashes of blue dance outside the window I begin a countdown. Onethousand-one. Onethousand-two. Onethou-Crash. Two and a half miles. Amatuer meterologists would say that I'm two and a half miles away from being struck by lightning.

This reminds me why we used to lay out sacrifices to appease angry skies.

Aside from occasional bursts, the black living room is kept in light by only a single beacon of pre-Thomas Edison ingenuity, wax and string. A candle is the only thing that keeps me from shuffling around in darkness. It sits on the coffee table poised to blow out at any second. I'm cradled around it, not in the way a caveman would huddle around a campfire or the way a hobo would shift around a burning trash can. Not for warmth. I hold close to this fickle light in the same way a preschooler needs a nightlight. You might say I'm afraid of the dark, and in part I am, but what I'm really afraid of, is what's out there.

The orange glow that spins odd shadows about this room is more distracting than ambient. Sitting on a stitchweave sofa I stare at the reflective glow of a boxy television. Without power the obsidian block casts distorted reflections that flicker in sporadic bobs and growths of candle light. My face looks caved in and warped. My room looks bent and jagged. Why I stare at this useless T.V., I don't know. Old habits I suppose. The surface looks like a crystal ball into hell. If I were to smile I'd scare myself with the horrific disfigurment that would rise to my face.

Crash.

The booming sound is tacked right on the tail end of a blinding flash. It forces me to let out a gasp. With the brief collapse of my lungs air is pushed out blowing the candle from this-little-light-of-mine to snuffed. Blackness surrounds me. If I were to have any more matches I wouldn't have this problem, but sense I don't, I do.

I need light. My only option is to make the trek to the kitchen and grope through drawers for a flashlight whose batteries more-than-likely don't work.

I rise from my couch and plod towards the kitchen. I can barely make it out from the shadows still present. Only the faintest outline of a wall cutaway exists. I walk forward using my memory to try to edge a path. My arms are held in front of me as I move. Once I hear my soft footsteps snap from carpet to tile, I know I'm only a few steps away. I shuffle and tiptoe until-

Smack.

The counter. I bang my palm on its hard surface. I feel up the space until my tactile sense tells me that I'm clutching a rounded knob. I pull it open and dive my fingertips in. Forks and spoons. The clanging of silverware and tell-tell shapes clue me in. I shut this drawer and move to my right. It should be the one with the flashlight. I reach my hand down and instead of finding the cylindircal shape I find something cool and sticky. It feels like someone spilled jam but not quite. I shift my hands around and my digits get tacky. What is this? I rub up against a strange meaty shape.

Before a panic takes me over I rake my fingers over a rubberized grip. The flashlight. I pull it out of the drawer and click its dorsal button.

Ctick.

A dull beam shines out. I angle it to the drawer. What I see inside looks curiously like an ear. No, exactly like. All around is blood, dark and rust colored. The crimson liquid fills the space in a sickening stain.

Absentmindedly I reaches to the side of my head. Instead of feeling a folded peice of flesh, evolved to amplify sound, I feel nothing except for dry blood and a hole where my ear used to be. And then I remember.

Word Count- 666