Scene 18: Submersion part 2
Anthony's eyes snapped open.
The woman stood directly in front of him now, inches from his face. Her features were clearer, sharper, wrong.
Her smile stretched too wide, the corners of her mouth pulling back toward her earlobes in a grotesque rictus. Her teeth were yellowed, cracked. Her eyes—still his mother's eyes, still that warm brown he remembered—gleamed with something else entirely.
Something hungry.
"Come to Mama, Tony."
She extended her arms again, palms up, fingers curling in a beckoning gesture.
Anthony scrambled backward, his hands sliding on the carpet. "What... what are you?"
The woman's smile widened impossibly further, the skin at the corners of her mouth beginning to split.
"What am I?" she repeated, tilting her head. Her voice had layers now, his mother's voice underneath something deeper, older, like two people speaking in imperfect unison. "I'm your mother, sweetheart. Don't you recognize me?"
"No. No!" Anthony shook his head violently, still backing away. His shoulders hit the wall. "This isn't real. This has to be a nightmare."
"Ah..."
The woman dropped her arms.
The smile remained.
"You think I am not real?"
A sudden, searing heat erupted against Anthony's left elbow. He yelped, jerking away from the wall, spinning to see what had burned him.
A metal heater, ancient and rusted, sat against the wall. Its coils glowed orange-red, radiating waves of heat that distorted the air around it. The paint on the wall behind it was bubbling, blackening.
He hadn't seen it before.
It hadn't been there.
"How—"
He turned back.
The woman was now close, in a new form as she roared in his face.
Her body stretched upward like taffy being pulled, joints popping and cracking as her spine elongated. Her head scraped the ceiling, then pushed through it, plaster and wood splintering around her neck. Her limbs thinned, bones pressing against skin that had turned the color of spoiled milk, gray-green and mottled with rot.
The nightgown hung in tatters on her skeletal frame.
Her face—God, her face—
The flesh had sloughed away in places, revealing yellow bone beneath. Her hair fell out in clumps, drifting to the floor like ash. Only a few greasy strands remained, clinging to her scalp.
And Her eyes…
The pupils had changed from black to a dim, sickly gold-white, glowing faintly from within the sockets.
She leaned down.
Down.
Down.
Her face filling his vision, so close he could smell her—decay and smoke and something chemical, like burning plastic.
Her mouth opened.
Too wide.
The jaw unhinged with a wet crack, revealing rows of teeth that were too long, too sharp, stained black with old blood.
The sound of her roar was deafening, inhuman, a freight train colliding with a dying animal. It vibrated through Anthony's skull, rattling his teeth, making his vision blur.
The walls cracked.
The floor buckled.
The heat from the radiator intensified, the metal groaning and warping.
Anthony screamed and the next thing he sees…
…He was back in the communal bathroom.
The sinks were off. The showers were silent. The floor was dry.
Everything was still.
Anthony stood frozen in front of the middle sink, staring at his own reflection in the mirror. His face was pale, his eyes wide and glassy. His breathing came in shallow, shaking gasps.
"Uuuhmm... dude?"
Anthony spun around.
A boy stood a few feet away, short and round-bodied, with a confused expression on his face.
"Are you okay?"
Anthony didn't answer. His eyes flicked to the door.
It was open.
Another boy entered, tall, lean, green hair falling over his forehead. He walked past Anthony without a word, heading toward the showers.
The round boy snapped his fingers in front of Anthony's face.
"Hey, earth to... what's your name?"
"An— A-Anthony..."
"Oookay... Anthony, I'm Lewis. Saw you just standing here looking at your reflection and thought maybe you were sleep—"
Anthony bolted.
He pushed past Lewis, nearly knocking him over, and stumbled out the door into the hallway.
Lewis watched him go, blinking.
"—walking..." He shrugged and joined the line of six boys waiting for the showers.
In front of him stood the boy with green hair.
"Cool hair," Lewis said.
Matthew Winters looked down at him. His face was pale, almost gray. Dark circles hung heavy beneath his eyes, like bruises that wouldn't heal.
"Uhm... thanks."
The response was flat. Cold. Lifeless.
Lewis frowned slightly. He'd expected... something else. Energy, maybe. Or at least a smile. But Matthew sounded like someone who hadn't slept in days.
Sure, it was 5:26 AM. But people weren't supposed to be this tired.
Matthew turned back toward the showers, his shoulders slumped, his gaze distant.
Lewis said nothing else.
Behind them, the water in the middle sink dripped once.
Then stopped.