She squeezed her eyes shut very tightly and swung back into the bathroom, allowing her back to come to rest against the door with such force that it banged against the wall again. This time there was sure to be damage but Angela was more concerned about her breathing, which she was currently unable to catch.
Her heart pounded hard as it tried to escape from her chest and it really started to hurt. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it. Yet every time she thought the word ‘it’ she could see a clear image in her head showing her what she didn’t want to see. What I didn’t see. I couldn’t have. I’d be…
Her mind reeled and she suddenly realized – until that very moment – she never knew what that phrase meant. Angela thought she could deal with just about anything that came her way, that nothing would cause fear—not for her. Even for a girl like Angela there were limits.
She had just exceeded those limits and her mind was doing a kind of summersault, looking for a rationale that would at least categorize—if it couldn’t totally dismiss—what she’d just seen. Explaining it, she thought, would be completely out of the question.
Angela rolled against the wall, back into the bathroom, until she got far enough past the door to allow it to close. She decided that a ginger, quiet motion would be best. No sense disturbing…it. Whatever. I didn’t see it. I didn’t see it.
As she heard the door bolt clack into its slot in the wall, Angela breathed an irrational sigh of relief as if a simple door would stop what she’d just seen. Her breathing shortened again as an image slipped quietly back into her mind, an image of…that, just breaking through and plowing right over the broken door—and her.
What could it want?
Angela quickly turned the lock and backed away from the door, as if the door itself had now become her enemy. She backed all the way into the bathroom and sat on the wet countertop where the two sinks were sunk in—two pretty, off-white clam shells. There she waited in silence for…something. What is it?
She considered this might be another one of her GothMares, since they often intruded on everyday life without warning. But even the most intense ones never frightened her as this brief vision had. And the back of her pants were getting wet from real water on the countertop. Angela had never felt anything REAL while she was having one of her ‘visions’. Not like this.
Al Musitano has lived many lives. At least one of them must have been as a teenage girl. His writing comes from a place of darkness and confusion. Traveling the world brought him to near-death experiences with headless horsemen, cannibal pigmies, and zombies.
These experiences, along with his fascination with the most confusing language on the planet, have convinced him to write these stories. Are they fiction or remnants of memories? Not even his psychiatrist knows for sure.