FictionPress.com - let the words flow| FictionPress.com - let the words flow |
| Home Just In Communities Forums Beta Readers Dictionary Search | Login Register Extras |
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear? The Lord is the strength of my life; of whom shall I be afraid?” – Psalm 27:1
Darkness.
It penetrated the walls, the ceiling, and the windows, enveloping the room in a sleepy, cold state of being. With three distinct clicks, the lamp resting on the small mahogany two-door dresser turned on to provide a small amount of light to the cramped hotel room. The fake orange glow hardly provided enough luminance for her to fish through her backpack for a new set of clean clothes.
She selected a black tank top and a pair of washed-out jeans. Actually, she had worn this outfit about a week ago and didn’t have the time to take it to the cleaners, so really they weren’t technically clean clothes. They were better than any of the other outfits that she had in her bag, though. There was only one bloodstain on the left knee of the jeans, and she couldn’t discern any stains on the black shirt in the dim light.
“This will have to do,” she said, putting her arms through the holes and pulling the tank top over her head. The material immediately bonded to the thin layer of sweat that covered her entire body.
Grimacing, she walked into the bathroom and quickly flicked the light on. Shielding her eyes with her right hand, she proceeded to the sink and turned both facets on full blast. Slowly but surely, her eyes adjusted to the new amount of light that flooded the small room. After splashing large amounts of water onto her face, she reluctantly looked up at her reflection in the severely dirty mirror.
“No wonder I stay away from mirrors,” she sighed, studying her reflection.
Empty light blue eyes rimmed with dark circles stared back at her oval shaped face. Her skin was as pale as the half moon hanging in the dark sky outside. She rubbed the back of her bony hand against her flushed cheek, wiping away a small amount of the water that remained on her face. Her lips were small, dry, and chapped. They burnt immensely, and she ran her tongue over them in an attempt to quell the pain.
“If my face looks this bad, I would hate to see the rest of my body,” she said, grabbing a hand towel and patting her wet face with it.
Her dark brown hair hung limply over her shoulders and down her back. Taking a red hair tie off of the counter, she pulled the thick mane into a loose ponytail. The greasy strands shined under the cheap fluorescent lights that hung over the mirror and the sink. She debated washing the dirt and oil out of her hair but dismissed the idea after noticing the red digital display on the clock next to the bed.
It was 8:30 at night. She could already sense that they would be on the move. They would be looking for her, and she couldn’t stay at this hotel any longer. Other lives were already in danger, and she had to think of them before she even thought of her own comfort.
“It’s not going to be like last time,” she said to herself, exiting the bathroom and walking back to her bag.
The jean backpack rested limply across the orange and brown comforter with its contents spilling out onto the bed. She picked up a purple tube of deodorant and smeared the white substance under both of her armpits. She could stand looking like a complete mess, but she refused to smell like one. There were still a couple of loose shreds of dignity left in her otherwise empty body.
After using the stick of deodorant, she picked up her jean backpack and tossed it inside with the few shirts and pants that remained inside. A few other toiletries remained on the bed, and she picked them each up one by one and stashed them away. Once her toothbrush was inside of the bag, she quickly zipped it up and threw it over her shoulder. Flipping the lights off in the bathroom and by the bed, she proceeded to walk towards the door.
“Hopefully, I’ll be far from this town before they pick up my scent,” she whispered, opening the door and pausing to look back over the room.
That’s when she saw it, a tiny gleam of light, sitting on the comforter that she had just straightened moments ago. Her breath caught in her throat as she slammed the door shut and threw her bag down on the carpet under her feet. Quickly, she threw the lock on the door and slid the security chain firmly into place. After pulling the curtains over the entire window, she walked over to the bed and grabbed the shiny object off the comforter.
“Damn it!” she screamed, dropping the object onto the floor and holding her hand in immense pain.
A large red burn mark began to appear in the palm of her hand from where the object had seared her skin. The mark ran from her index finger to the end of the heel of her hand. Carefully, she ran her other hand over the mark, but miraculously, no intense pain shot through her hand. Nothing hurt. It was just there almost like a reminder except she had no idea what the message might be.
Dropping her hands to her sides, her eyes next focused on the object lying on the floor. It’s red beads seemed to glow in the darkened room with such fiery intensity that her eyes began to burn just from staring at them. The long silver chain laid in a perfect circle on the stained brown carpet with the red beads accentuating it’s length. She could wear it wrapped twice around her neck, and it still would just skim the top of her breasts. However, she refrained from wearing it due to the random burning sensation that often accompanied it.
“Stupid thing,” she muttered as she bent down to try and pick it up.
Gingerly, she reached out and barely touched one of the red beads with only one of her fingers before quickly pulling away. It was still hot to touch but not enough to burn her again. Reaching into her back pocket, she extracted a white handkerchief with small embroidered roses decorating the edges. It was something that her grandmother had made for her years ago when she was just a small girl with pigtails. In the very center of the handkerchief, her name was perfectly stitched with dark red thread.
Jolene. It was a simple name that she hadn’t heard often. Back when she was in school, she used to love how she was the only one to bear that name. Many of her friends were forced to be called Sarah R. or Chelsea K., but Jolene luckily had never had to suffer that fate.
Instead, she suffered another fate that was miles worse than theirs.
Jolene used her handkerchief to pick up the necklace at the clasp. Dangling it in front of her face, she surveyed it for any weird changes in its structure, but everything appeared to be the same. Everything, but the tiny cross that dangled at the very center of the chain. It was only slightly tarnished and retained a beautiful silver that reflected the little amount of light that came through the windows from the streetlamps outside.
That delicate crucifix had been the tiny gleam of light shining in the inescapable darkness that had caught her eye. It had been the one thing that had kept her from leaving the hotel room. It was the one thing that prevented her from running out into the night, from fleeing from those who were vehemently following her from town to town, and from escaping her greatest fears and nightmares.
It was the item that constantly perplexed her. She grasped the cross between her thumb and her index finger, twirling it softly from front to back. There was definitely something different about it.
“It’s as cold as ice,” Jolene whispered, her blue eyes focused intently on the unyielding silver glow.
An untamable heat still radiated from the rest of the necklace, but the cross continued to retain an icy chill. Jolene stared in amazement at the small trinket unable to conceal her mixture of confusion and awe.
“What the hell is this thing?” she asked herself, hoping that someone would answer for her.
But there weren’t any heavenly angels that appeared from parted clouds. Nor was there any deep voice of God that filled the room. Instead, she only heard the soft whispers that continually plagued her.
“Jolene.”
They were always soft and barely audible, but Jolene could still hear them repeating her name over and over again. How they knew who she was, she still hadn’t figured out. All she knew was that they had been hunting her just as long as she had been hunting them.
“Can’t run forever, Jolene,” the voices ranted. “Have to face your fears sometime.”
Placing her hands firmly over her ears, she attempted to block out their incessant warnings, but the action was to no avail. She could still hear their words bouncing around in her subconscious. Running to the door as quickly as her legs could propel her, Jolene grabbed her backpack and threw the necklace, handkerchief and all, inside of its front pocket and snapped it shut.
“I don’t know how the hell you got out of there,” Jolene said to the now contained necklace, “But that’s where you are going to stay.”
Turning on the heel of her black sneakers, Jolene reached for the doorknob, but stopped as soon as she heard a crash outside of her door. The first crash was followed by a series of heavy footsteps and equally heavy breathing. Reaching once again into the dark abyss of her backpack, she extracted a recently sharpened wooden stake and tightened her grip on the long piece of wood.
“They’ve found me,” she whispered, her eyes filling with tears and sweat beading at her forehead.
She could see their silhouettes through the curtained window, and a new sense of fear crept into her already frightened body. Seven unidentified shadows could be seen outside of the window, and she prayed to God that there wouldn’t be any more than that. She had enough trouble fighting just one. If there were more, she would surely be dead before dawn.
Heat radiated from the front pocket where her necklace was contained, and she feared that the precious trinket would burn right through her bag. She knew that her antagonists had the ability to sense its power from miles away, and she was sure that they were itching to beat the door down.
She was right. The door began to violently shake as they attempted to knock the doorknob off. They were laughing and screaming as Jolene began to involuntarily tremble. Throwing her bag over her shoulder, she tightened her grip even more on the stake so that her knuckles turned a ghastly white.
The cheap hotel door went down in a disorganized array of splinters and fell forward at Jolene’s feet. She brought her gaze up from the remains of the barrier to rest on the intruders. She was right about the number of intruders, but that fact didn’t help ease her mind. Each of their faces carried a different emotion from hunger and anger to completely disinterested and bored.
“I guess you’re glad to see me,” she said, fighting to get the words out of her excessively dry mouth.
They didn’t respond to her empty joke. They just ran at her with fists raised and teeth bared. How she hated the sight of their sharp teeth covered in fresh coats of blood and the smell of death that always came with them.
She couldn’t think of anything witty to say as they ran at her. The only thing that she could do was raise her stake in the air and scream with only half the enthusiasm that her attackers possessed and hope that she made it out of this encounter with more than just her backpack intact.
