"This is my room?" Ashay blinks, looking at the familiar cracked ceiling above. His mind was hazy, almost in a state of blank. He just kept staring at the ceiling for the next few minutes, completely thoughtless.
He could feel the burning sensation gnawing in his stomach, like he hadn't eaten in days. The weakness was drowning much like an invisible weight put on his body; he could barely move his head to register the surroundings.
"Ya..that's definitely my room," he forced himself to sit up from his bed. The drab walls and slight breeze leaking through the windows were familiar. He looked outside; the weather was still gloomy, allowing only the fainest glimpse of sun to leak through the clouds.
Ashay looked at his arm; the scratch from tomorrow had been bandaged. Taking a long breath, he tried to brush his hands against his hair, but it was all tangled like a mess. His face frowned, recalling the fragments of yesterday. It was surreal—almost like a dream—another horror dream that he had woken up from.
Ashay got up, pressing his hands against the wall for support. Every movement felt slow and resistant, like walking through thick mud. The numbness dominated him, but at least he was able to walk on his own.
He reached for the desk, where his phone was placed on charge. Glowing with constant notifications. It was 12:50 PM.
As soon as he unlocked his phone, numerous notifications bombarded his screen; the headlines were unavoidable: "Massacre at Local College: Over 300 Brutally Slain in Minutes."
As soon as he unlocked his phone, tons of messages filled the notifications. His brows frowned as he scrolled through the DMs from various media companies.
He scrolled through all of it; the messages from the media company spammed his chat. He scrolled more, looking through the pixalated and blurred images from the incident. Ashay's fingers tightened around his phone, his eyes flickering with a mix of fear and something else—numbness, maybe.
The incident from yesterday wants a dream, but a global headline. Scratching his forehead, he cleared all his inbox and dialed to Jay.
Ashay looked at the images from the incident, and images of it quickly flashed before his eyes. It was not a dream but a grim reality. But this time, Ashay wasn't feeling disgrace or remorse, almost as if it hadn't affected him at all. To his surprise, he picked up on the first ring.
"Alive?" Ashay asked after a small pause.
A tired groan passed across the line. "Barely. Thank you," Jay responded.
Ashay's lips curled into a slight, hollow smile. "Injuries and stuff?"
"I am not sure what's happening anymore. Haven't slept all night; the pain is literally killing me from inside," Jay continued. "They said one of my rib cages was cracked, though they already made stitches to stop bleeding. So now they are getting it back open and inserting a metal rod inside me."
"Sounds bad," Ashay tone was heavy.
"How's the media handling it?" Ashay finally asked, breaking the silence.
"Like vultures. They're storming the hospital, prying at anything that looks alive. No respect for privacy, humanity, nothing. You're lucky you're not here."
"I see," Ashay responded in a cold, low tone. He was feeling very complex about everything. "Their unprofessional behavior doesn't even surprise me anymore."
Silence fills again.
"You there?" Jay broke the silence.
"Yeah," Ashay took a short breath. "I'm just... hungry and a little dizzy. Take care; I'll call you back."
Ashay put the phone down and defiantly made his way to the bathroom.
"You too," Jay said before the call cut from his side.
He splashed cold water on his face again and again. He looked up in the mirror, his eyes matching with his reflection, half expecting something about to happen. But his reflection remained natural: dark circles, pale skin, with uncombed messy hair. He clenched his jaw, feeling anger bubble up.
"So," he said to his reflection, "are you going to say anything this time?" He waited, almost daring the blood-red letters to scribble across the mirror as they had before. But nothing appeared. Only quiet and his own lifeless eyes.
Ashay clenched his fist, almost about to punch the mirror, but his anger instantly calmed down, and he controlled himself from doing so.
Walking out of the bathroom, he changed into a new pair of trousers and a T-shirt. "Anyone home?" he called loudly, walking to the hall. The television sound made it obvious. The fictional detective anime theme, which played like how many times.
In a wheelchair sat his brother, Rajat, a thin man who appeared almost identical to Ashay. His eyes darker and red, and his skin so pale that one could see his veins pulsing through it.
"Tell me a time when I'm not home," the person replied, not so annoyed.
Ashay looked at him expressionlessly; he had a love-hate relationship with his brother. Rajat was caring and smart, the kind of person with solutions to every problem. At the same time, his bossy nature made him insurmountable.
"The doctor said you were out because of brain shutdown last night—told you to rest. But here you are, strolling around." Rajat said loudly, side-glancing at Ashay. Ashay stood still, looking back at him.
"Do we really have the budget to call a doctor? On me?" he asked, annoyed.
In response, Rajat just chuckled sarcastically, "I did ask for permission before taking money off your purse. You weren't angry, so I took it as a yes."
Ashay's eyes widened; he quickly checked his wallet; it was true, he had barely a few bucks left on him now. Ashay looked at Rajat, almost a death gaze.
Rajat paused the TV and turned back; unaffected by his gaze, he continued to speak, "I heard about the incident. Sounds like something straight out of a zombie apocalypse. Isn't it… interesting?"
"Nothing 'interesting' about 300 college students getting killed by monsters?" Ashay asked, his plain expressions darkened.
"A monster, you say…" Rajat spoke with curiosity. "That's unusual; survivors say it was like some unusual force they couldn't escape."
Ashay felt his skin crawl under Rajat's gaze, as if he were being peeled apart. "Just what are you getting at?"
Rajat didn't immediately answer but scrolled through his phone, pointing at a picture of the wall and the bloodied message on it. "This thing. Doesn't it look like the messages you mentioned seeing earlier?"
"Tsk, since when did you start believing my words?" Ashay coldly responded, walking toward the front door. "If it was the same thing, you couldn't have seen it."
"Now, where are you going?" Rajat asked loudly, almost shouting.
"To get a damn haircut and eat some decent food," Ashay retorted in the same tone.
Rajat raised an eyebrow. "The doctor said you shouldn't go out. It's not good for your mental health."
Ashay stopped without turning back. "If you're so worried about my mental health, stop talking about that damn incident!"
"Ha," Rajat chuckled, embarrassed. "My bad."
Not waiting for a response, Ashay slammed the door. Thankfully, the address he had given to his college was that of a different house. Though he initially did it to prevent his father from seeing his grades, it was now serving well to keep the media away from his actual home.
Ashay took out his wallet, counting the money, which was just enough for snacks and a haircut. He still felt weak, but the numbness in his legs had faded.
He walked down the street, watching the cars. There were few public vehicles, and the city seemed unusually calm compared to previous days—even given recent events.
With no street vendors around, he went to a modest restaurant. Everything seemed incredibly peaceful and typical, almost unbelievable.
Ashay couldn't help feeling strangely calm. A normal person would be preoccupied with the incident or the cryptic messages that only he could see, but something about this moment felt unusually calm.
"Is this because of my usual nightmares? Or am I turning into a psychopath?" He murmured, biting his tongue, realizing he talked out too loud. He could notice the unusual gazes from passersby.
Finally, his turn came at the salon. Sitting in the chair, he looked at himself. Normally, he'd go for a simple, inexpensive cut, but today, he felt like doing something different.
"Not too expensive, not too lame," he thought, taking a deep breath.