Delayed Flight* Snippet

May 30, 2022 | 12:25 a.m.
—

The silver of the knife glinted in the hotel’s low light.

I shook my head, mouth dry, and scooted away, dew soaking through my sweat and dirt-encrusted skinny jeans.

All of the other guests had long since vanished back to their rooms—like I should have. But no, I just had to get involved. How utterly stupid of me. I swallowed, throat bobbing, unsure whether this person before me truly existed or if they were yet another delusion rattled to life by the persistent drum of my sleep-deprived brain. Mud squelched beneath the person’s sneakers, though, as they stepped closer, separating me from the inside of the hotel, from safety.

“Please, don’t do this,” I pleaded. My voice, meant to be firm, was brittle, like it could be shattered with the slightest of taps. They didn’t answer; the knife’s blade, specked with dried blood, quaking ever-so-slightly.

I wished I could see better, make out their obscured form from behind the auburn strands of hair that had worked their way loose from my ponytail. Instead, they seemed spun from the dark, unnatural fog swirling around us. What was certain was the hesitation—a delay that I could use. I flung myself to my feet and ran past, my ragged Vans slipping in the wet grass.

Something heavy hit the back of my skull and I fell forward with a bang, head slamming down hard. I blinked a few times, bright white stars dotting my vision.

“Not yet,” they said, and I clenched my eyes shut, hating how much I recognized the voice. I hesitantly turned to the familiar curves of that face, the shine of their blond hair.

“What are you—” I began.

The blade pierced my side.

* = Story’s working title