Flee

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

My hands are shaking. I know the rules, yet the cold metal of the door handle feels good in my hand. Powerful.

There’s nothing good out there, or so they say. But I know they lie. See the dead girl for evidence.

A cold draft drifts under the door, across my bloodied toes, caressing them. The candles flicker; shadows jump and dance behind me.

I shudder, gripping the handle tighter.

I daren’t look back. If I do, I might lose my nerve.

I know what’s there, the same four dirty walls as always, but only now, they’re decorated with the rusty, brown splatters of the new girl's grey matter.

They would come back soon. Any second now, I’ll hear footsteps. When they realise the chains are off, I’ll end up like the motionless body behind me, slowly decomposing into the floor.

The draft brings a hint of fresh air as the wind howls. I have grown used to the heavy odour in the room, sickly sweet like rotting fruit. Still, the air is a siren, calling me forth, begging me to feel it on my face, breathe it in as it ripples across my skin... To see the sky again, if only one more time.

My heart thunders as I turn the handle, agonisingly slow, desperate to keep quiet. The click is dull, almost undetectable, but I feel the door give just a little. I hold my breath as I creak it towards me.

A rush of cold, night air billows against my face, throwing the door open. For a split-second, I close my eyes, relishing in its relief.

A floorboard creaks above me, snapping me back to reality.

With weak, shakey legs, I make a break for the treeline.