"How long was I unconscious?"
Ah, it still fucking hurts, my God. This fucking life.
My ribs, my throat—still hurting like hell. I can't move even an inch. Every part of my body is screaming, screaming like a starving child demanding food. Or was that me screaming? I can't tell anymore.
"Is the monster still here?" The thought hits me suddenly as I struggle to wake from this messed-up situation. My coat soaked with blood, my white shirt turning red to match my tie. Red on red on red. Everything's red now. When did that happen?
When I was slammed against the wall, I went flying toward the door—straight into it. Lucky. Or maybe not. Is luck even real in a place like this?
The first thought that clawed its way through my skull was: *run*. The door was right there, so that's what I tried to do. I somehow managed to stand, legs trembling, and reached for the handle. But nothing. Just a sharp *click* and then that announcement—that same robotic voice echoing through my head like it was coming from inside my skull.
**[NO ONE TO LEAVE UNTIL THE GHOST REBOUND IS DEFEATED]**
"Shit." I cursed. So I can't leave until I kill that thing. Ghost rebound. What the hell does that even mean? The words taste strange in my mouth, like I'm speaking a language I used to know but forgot. Maybe if I stay in this world, I'll go crazy someday. Or sometime. Or maybe I already have.
Wait. Did I already think that?
Feeling suffocated, I turned my head and saw the monster doing the same thing with the body I'd seen earlier... eating. Tearing. Consuming.
I don't know why it didn't come straight for me. Maybe it likes to play with its prey. Maybe it's dumb and wanted to finish its first meal before starting on this weak, unconscious sack of human meat. Whatever the reason, I should call myself lucky. Lucky. That word again. Does it count as luck when everything hurts this much?
I need a plan. I need to kill it, or I'll be next. But how? My ribs are broken—I think. I think they're broken. My legs might be fractured. The floor keeps tilting under me like the whole room is breathing. Is the room breathing?
Focus.
I grabbed a pole to my right and slowly, *quietly*, tried to think. Tried to formulate a plan. But my thoughts keep sliding away like water through fingers I'm not sure I can feel anymore.
Hopefully any weapon can kill it. If not, I'll die. Die here. Die in this red room. Has it always been this red?
I decided to find a weapon. I looked around, moving my head carefully because it still hurt from the impact—or impacts? How many times was I hit? I found something. A metal thing. Bulky at the front, heavy at the top, wooden handle sticking out the back.
A hammer.
But it was behind the monster, who was still enjoying its feast. I could hear the wet sounds. The tearing sounds. They echo. Everything echoes here.
I need to distract it. I know it has a strong sense of smell and hearing—I've seen it react to blood first, then sound. I can use that. I *have* to use that.
With shaking hands, I tore a piece of my shirt—the blood-soaked part, so much blood, is it all mine?—and grabbed a chunk of metal from the ground near where I'd been thrown. I wrapped the metal in the cloth and threw it to the side, opposite from where the hammer sat waiting. Waiting for me. Or maybe I was waiting for it.
The monster lifted its head. Started sniffing. Following. Good. Good good good.
I dragged myself toward the hammer, lifting my legs with my hands because they wouldn't move on their own anymore. The pain was distant now, like it belonged to someone else. Maybe it did. Maybe I was someone else. When did I stop being me?
I reached the hammer. It made a creaking sound when I lifted it—God, so heavy, why is it so heavy?—but the monster was still investigating the blood-soaked cloth. Stupid thing. Stupid monster. Stupid stupid stupid.
I moved behind it. Slowly. Steadily. Each step felt like walking through honey. Through time. Through layers of reality peeling away.
I raised the hammer with both hands—need to be sure, 100% sure, hit its head, end this, end this *end this*—
I brought it down.
*CRACK.*
Silver blood sprayed across my face. My clothes. The walls. Beautiful. Horrible. I swung again. Again. *Again.* And again and again and *again* until my arms were shaking and my hands were hesitating and I couldn't tell if I was still swinging or just remembering swinging or dreaming about swinging.
Silver blood everywhere. Mixed with my red. Red and silver. Christmas colors. Why am I thinking about Christmas?
I could see its brain—small, pathetic, just a cluster of maggots pressed together forming something that pretended to be a brain. One brain cell. I was right. It *is* dumb.
But then it turned.
It *turned to me.*
How? I destroyed its head. I saw the maggots. How is it—
It made a sound, sharp and piercing, shaking my skull like a rising tide before a tsunami. Its hand lifted—slower than before, much slower, I can see that, I can see everything now, too much, I can see too much—
Those long, sharp nails reached for me but I knew I could take it I could take the hit I could—
Wrong.
It hit my stomach hard. I coughed blood—so much blood, where does it all come from?—and flew into the wall. Again. Always into walls. This whole place is walls and red and silver and pain and—
Consciousness slipping.
This time I'm sure. I'm dead. Dead dead dead.
Memories flash: parents I disappointed, a girlfriend I never had, that bastard ghost rebound I couldn't even kill, the red room, the silver blood, the hammer, the walls, the—
I close my eyes.
Slowly.
Drifting.
*Is this real?*
*Was any of it real?*
*Am I—*
---
"Doctor! Doctor, the patient is awake! After two months in a coma!"
What*