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SingaporeThis story may contain adult content. |
| Written by Robert Quintin Penn | |
| Saturday, 21 June 2008 | |
His incessant laughter was muffled by the wallpaper, the carpeting, but most of the hotel was empty. Few guests were present; the weather was not inviting during this year, and tourists were harder to come by. Like the grainy footage from an older camera, the room was not very clear. Dust danced in the air, despite a lack of movement from its occupants. The laughter was not a response that was induced by a better-than-average joke, but from the burning of brain cells. Like an executioner, it was going down the line, snuffing out his sanity one cell at a time. From outside the abnormally bright sun's rays were powerful enough to penetrate the closed curtains, forming four boxes on the floor, or a single large box of light with a cross in it.
The man was on his knees, sitting on the heels of his shoes, a severed arm in his mouth. The laughter would muffle as he brought his mouth to the severed limb and bit off chunks, consuming them, and preceded with his instable laughter. A head rested on his knees, the head of his companion, his fiance. Her eyes were closed, the short hair was groomed, and the skin was still soft and smooth. The only thing that stood out was her own blood as it dripped from her limb onto her. The worst part was that no one knew of the event taking place just a few doors down, or a few floors up, from them.
A virus. It entered the body, slowly going up his spine. It was moderately uncomfortable, but the pain began to subside. Then it entered his brain. Hours later he began to hallucinate. Blisters formed on the skin. A fever swarmed on through his forehead. But he refused treatment. He refused to leave the room. More importantly, he refused for her to leave. It was too late.
The moment they stepped up to the counter, he knew that the couple was American. He never enjoyed having them in his hotel, but the lack of tourists was enough to tell the truth that they indeed have a room available. He got his money, and that was all he cared about.
Something was in the water. Now his future wife was becoming a meal for the man she thought she loved. He stopped. He heard something. A groan. She was returning back to consciousness. Without hesitation, he leaned down and encircled her trachea with his teeth, and bit down. Hard.
Blood stained him, her, and the floor. Now the man was walking in circles, pulling at his hair, his hands holding his head, panic and anxiety was plastered on his face. He screamed.
Guests quickly informed the man. He quickly informed police. The man and two officers went up to the room, taking two steps at a time as they shot up the staircase. Screaming echoed from the room halfway down the hallway, banging, scraping. They entered the room, just as his head erupted in a geyser of hot molten blood. Contamination followed. Followed by quarantine. Trade halted, economy went down.
Not to worry. His state of insanity and his hungry desire to turn to cannibalism shut out any senses from his nerves. He felt no pain. The same cannot be said for the inhabitants of the hotel. Copyright 2008 Robert Quintin Penn |
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