THE DISEASE

First of a collection of psychological thriller short stories for school project, Please give harsh constructive criticism

Gabriel Heath

Rewritten

Can you please give me suggestions for creative writing? Something’s off about the story but I don’t know what. Something off about the writing, it’s been a while.

Darkness... For a moment that is all the man is aware of as he recedes from sleeps clutches. Groggy and confused, he tries to open his eyes but he can’t. His eyelids are stuck together and he feels a spark of fear ignite in his gut. The thought of being stuck in absolute darkness terrifies him. He struggles to open them again and is successful, breaking the layer of mucus that was responsible for his momentary blindness. His relief however, is short lived. The first thing he sees is a ceiling Mold spots the cracked plaster, which looks to be heavily stained with brownish red splotches. He doesn’t want to think about what it but as he glances around he sees all the walls are similarly patterned, with filth seeming to be the color scheme. He looks over the side of his... cot? Narrow bed? His head feels too foggy to think properly but it begins to fade when he sees the floor, it’s covered in pools of blood, and as he looks, there is no denying it. He doesn’t know how he can be so sure but there is no doubt in his mind that it is anything other than blood. The dark red looks all too similar to the stains that cover the walls and as he stares at the dark puddles, transfixed, it begins to dawn on him that they are not randomly scattered around the floor like he first thought. He’s unable to break his gaze and his eyes begin to follow the trail of those deeply ominous puddles. What he sees at the end of this.. this "trail" would have evoked a scream from him had his mouth not been so dry and his voice unfound. As if waiting for this to happen, the smell suddenly hits him and he gags, dry heaving. The stench is unbearable and he hasn’t a clue how he remained unaware of it until now.

Wanting more than anything to leave, to escape this, this... thing, he sits up and realizes that it’s actually a gurney he is lying on. Another second and he sees the rusted shackles binding each of his wrist to the sides of this.. this deathbed... Fear grips his heart and throat tighter, adrenaline flushing any remaining grogginess from his system. Panic starts to consume him, forcing his fruitless attempts to wrench his hands free. He tugs and yanks not because he thinks it will free him, but because a terror he has never felt before has seized control of his body and his thoughts. Terror, which pushes things like rationality and reason to the side. For he can't stand to be in this room one second longer with… it.

“F**k f**k f**k!” He whines while he continues to pull and smash the shackles against the arm rail on his gurney to which his restraints are bound.

He represses the urge to scream when an image of “it” flashes through his head again.

Just the image of "it" sends more waves of fear and adrenaline through his body and he begins roll his body from left and right and left again with an urgency he's never felt before. He rocks the gurney as hard as he can until finally both him and the gurney tip over and fall, facing away from “it”. To his surprise, the ages old shackle on his left wrist breaks at the a chainlink from the weight of the gurney falling on it. His left hand is weighed down yet free, and that's all the matters to him.

He uses his free hand to yank and pull yet again at his remaining restraint, willing the rusted chain to break, but to no avail. Stupidly he screams in frustration with a voice as cracked and broken as the room he now lies in. Tears begin to brim in his eyes as he realizes it’s hopeless. He finds little relief in the fallen gurney being between him and… the disease, he decides to call that thing. The weight of his hopeless situation causes him to break into hysterical laughter that stops only to allow coughing fit which speckles the floor with a little more blood.

A sound comes from the other side of the room. He freezes. He fights down the urge to cough and scarcely dares to breathe at all. Tears fall silently down his dirt caked face as he tries to accept his fate. The sound comes again. It’s like a whimpering. A soft whimpering turned scream of agony and rage. It’s up, he thinks. It wasn’t dead. But I will be… oh god oh god oh god. He looks around the floor for a weapon, something, anything to put up a fight. A glimmer of light reflects off of something in front of him, given from the single flickering light in the room. His eyes lock onto a set of keys and his tears quickly change taste from dreadfulness to hope. The… disease is groggy, or injured. He can hear it crashing around the room trying to gain its senses. He reaches for the keys and comes just short. His hand is centimeters away from them. He tries again and again but he already knows what he must do. He has to move the gurney forward to reach it. He quietly grabs onto the metal bar with his free hand and grasps the chain from the shackle on his other. He listens closely to the other side of the room. He plans to move the gurney as soon as it screams. Maybe it won’t hear.

It growls then gurgles. It slips and crashes around and finally gives another scream in rage. At the same time, he yanks the gurney forward a foot. The metal screeches across the floor. He freezes, unable to move. The disease is quiet as death. He almost laughs at that thought, the irony of death being quiet. Slowly, he hears steps approaching his direction. His heart skips a beat as he carefully grabs the keys and almost screams as he realizes there are almost 20 on the chain. He slowly but carefully starts trying to unlock his right hands restraint, one at a time. He tries to be quiet but it hears the keys. Gluttony and rage fills its head. Its only thoughts are to rip him apart, to feast. It quickens. He can hear it drop down on all fours and stumble across the slippery floor to get to him. Screaming its much too human like scream. He fumbles with the keys trying one after another after another. It’s getting closer to him with every step and he’s no closer to finding the right key. He forbids letting the thought that the key might not be there enter his mind.

He tries a larger old gray key on it and it clicks, causing him to yell stupidly in delight. At the same time the disease crashes into the gurney sending both of them sliding across the floor. He scrambles to his feet and sees the disease is no more than 3 feet away, staring at him with those pale eyes, which look like heavily afflicted with cataracts. Gray, cloudy, blind. Its tattered remains of clothes still clinging onto the patchwork of blood soaked fur and skin. There are boils and growths covering its body, its fingers bloody from having the nails ripped off from what he assumed was too much clawing. He looks desperately for a door before the disease gets on its feet. He sees one at the far side of the room where the disease originally lay. He doesn’t think for a second. He runs, as fast as he can, he can hear it scrambling behind him to catch up. He reaches the door first and yanks on the handle. Locked.

The disease comes charging up behind him and he lunges out of the way. The thing splinters the thin door with its body force and crashes into the hallway. Without wasting a second the man runs through the door and flies down the hall. Running as fast as he can, he hears the disease start to follow him but he takes one turn after another after another in desperate attempt to lose it. He sees a flight of stairs and dashes down them coming out to what appears to be the main lobby. He stops running. The sight outside the doors is awe inspiring. He has no hope, only amazement. He slowly walks toward where one of the front doors used to be. Now only blood stained broken wood remains on the floor. He looks up. The moon is blood red. The street before him is covered in bodies, some being consumed. Nothing takes notice of him. Giant creatures the sizes of mountains walk in the distance, looking too horrible to describe for even the most morbid English man. A woman walks down the street, ignored by the disease. Boils cover her hand. Blood spews out of her mouth and she laughs uncontrollably. Hair grows abnormally on her body. It’s only a matter of time… The man sits down on the steps in front of the crumbling hospital. Defeated. In all aspects he was dead long before the disease ripped him apart.