Drabble: Drama

He heard the incessant whine of the machines as he flatlined and the shaky last exhale from his lungs, and he was gone.

Two floors down, she gave her first cry, covered in blood and mucus.  The doctor cut her cord and handed her to her mother.  She didn’t stop crying.  Her soulmate was gone, taken away from her two floors above.

He drifted down to her, following her screams.  She opened her eyes and was silenced.  He was beside her, smiling to her in their greeting and goodbye.  He turned, and left her, and she knew not to cry.

The Movie

Wrote this from a writing group prompt.  Something to do with something happening on tv effecting what’s happening in the room…

Flash Fiction: Horror Drama

Mary didn’t usually watch horror movies.

Her mother wasn’t sure why she had chosen to rent this one.  Mary typically picked romances or comedies.  Something light-hearted.  But as the opening credits rolled, she snuggled under a blanket on the couch as the stings of the nerve-wracking music rang throughout the living room and into the kitchen.  Her mother watched Mary from the breakfast nook, studying how her dark hair shone in the dim light.  Mood lighting for a scary story.

It took twenty minutes for the ghost to finally appear: a black silhouette in the background, a bit out of focus.  The protagonist – a stubborn skeptic – spun around, and it was gone.  Mary jumped, startled, and turned to look behind her.  But it was only her mother there, by the fireplace.  She laughed at herself and turned back to the movie.

The movie was winding its way to its end when the ghost finally revealed itself to the skeptic.  Mary’s mother stood behind the couch, as engrossed in the movie as Mary, as engrossed in Mary as in the movie.  The ghost reached out to the woman, and mother reached out to Mary.  Mary shivered and again checked over her shoulder.  But of course no one was there.  She was alone in the house tonight.

One A.M.

Flash Fiction: Horror

It’s one in the morning, cold, ink-dark. I don’t feel the chill, but I do feel the blackness of the house, creeping into what was once my bones. I drift through the rooms, searching for you, aware of your heartbeat and your warm breaths. I sense them everywhere – all the easier for having neither myself – but can’t place them. It infuriates me, makes me heavy with impatience. My footsteps begin to echo the halls. Can you hear me, like I hear your breaths? Your life? There’s residue in every room: the sweat, the smell of you. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand you in this house. My house. Another door opens before me, squealing on unoiled hinges, and there you are. You’re sitting upright in bed, knuckles tight where they grip the sheets. Gasping for breath, that same hot breath, every breath scraping against my mind. Red hot. Burning. Can you see me? Or are your eyes as empty as ever in the dark?

I scream, I leap, I claw at you. But nothing connects; you don’t move and my hands pass through you. Your breaths cover me and your heart beats around my arm in your chest. I can’t touch you. You only shiver from the cold, from the air or from my own touch I can’t tell. I scream again, this time in defeat, and run from the room, the door creaking shut behind me.