The Sixth Sense
By mikemazza68
- 394 reads
He floated in a Guinness-black void, wrapped in a swatch of crushed
velvet, the only sound being that of his own heart thrumming blood
through his ears.
Something made him shudder, made him bite down hard onto his lower lip.
He felt the pain, felt the salty, overheated car battery taste of blood
on his tongue.
The floaty feeling faded, the sound of his heart hushed, the taste of
his blood became celery-bland.
And he didn't feel quite as safe anymore.
It reminded him of that time when, as a toddler, he'd strayed over to
stare at the new range of Dinky toys in the glass cabinet that filled
the back wall of the toy department and, when he turned around, his
mother had vanished and he was surrounded by lots of strange, rushing
grown-ups.
Or that time in Mrs Richards' class when he'd been so scared to excuse
himself that he'd wet his pants in a tear-blurred silence at the back
of the room.
He remembered Boris, the huge spider like something out of one of those
late-night horror movies he sometimes snuck downstairs to watch. He
lived&;#8230; he lurked curled up in the tiny gap beneath his
bedroom windowsill, only coming out at night to sit, long legs flexing
and scratching, on the wall, or on the ceiling directly above his
pillow, just waiting for him to fall asleep. But Boris never fell
asleep, and no matter how many times he chased him or swatted him with
a rolled-up copy of The Hotspur, no matter how many times he killed
him, Boris kept coming back.
He remembered not having completed his homework for Mr Shelley and the
yelling and bawling and inevitable page upon page of lines that would
follow.
He remembered the breathless adrenalin surge as he reached the summit
of the rollercoaster, only overcast skies before him.
And he remembered being caught with Linda Keithleigh in a state of
extreme passion by her dad.
No, he didn't feel quite as safe anymore.
He knew his heart was hammering faster now, but he could no longer hear
it.
He recalled finding his pet Jack Russell, Star, lying limp by the kerb,
tyre treads tattooing its concertinaed back.
What ? Hadn't Star died of old&;#8230;
Boris the spider crawling slowly over his face, a face that's too
petrified to move, or scream, long, bristled legs heading inexorably
towards a warm and open mouth.
He remembered Linda Keithleigh crying as they both gazed at the two
identical blue lines on the sterile, white plastic tube she held
shakily.
Excuse me ?
The stench of gas as he pressed the light switch.
Blood roses blooming on the white porcelain of the sink as he coughed
and coughed and coughed.
The fire in his lungs as the chicken bone lodged itself ever tighter at
the back of his throat.
But&;#8230; But&;#8230;
The feel of a scorching hot door handle and the smell of smoke as he
came back late from the pub.
The knock, knock, knocking on the front door at 3am and the grave look
of the police officer standing on the step.
Now, hang on a minute&;#8230;
The judder and bang as something exploded beneath that starboard plane
wing.
The wet impact of a knife into his ribcage and the grating noise as the
blade skates off bone.
The retina-searing sight of gleaming missiles bursting silently in the
air overhead, the air shimmering as the blast wave compresses it,
rushing towards him at Mach 3.
But, these weren't&;#8230; they didn't&;#8230; it
wasn't&;#8230;
His heart, his brain erupted.
And then only blackness, only silence&;#8230;
The tentacled things slithered across, pulled the wires from the inert
body hanging in null space.
They had plucked the senses from him one-by-one: sight, touch, smell,
taste, sound&;#8230; and they all had a certain&;#8230;
something.
But then, as they sifted his mind further, peeling away his memories
like the leaves of an artichoke, they found something else&;#8230; a
sixth sense&;#8230;
Dread, loathing, anxiety.
Fear.
And fear was tasty. And the more they got the human to remember, the
more they tasted.
And they wanted still more.
So, they induced the false memories, drove the fear to higher and
higher levels.
And they lapped it up like the sweetest sugar.
And they wanted still more.
Of course, the human had its limits. It had eventually broken.
The tentacled things gazed through the viewscreen at the blue-green
globe with all its twinkly lights, spinning far below, and all those
other humans with all those dreads, those anxieties, those
loathings.
Those fears.
And the tentacled things were so very, very hungry.
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