The Ride
He didn’t even look at the driver as he got into his Uber. He just nodded, focused on his phone. Work was kicking his ass; the second shift was literally hell. It wasn’t just one thing; it was all of them. Bosses micromanaging, co-workers beefing, department being petty, one thing after another fueling the vicious cycle.
The driver must have said something because he kept looking back at him in the rearview mirror. He mumbled something to the driver. He didn’t know what or if they had said anything, and frankly, he really didn’t care. He paid the dude for a ride, not a conversation. A decent metal track started playing; he cranked the volume on his phone and settled into the seat.
He closed his eyes, focusing on the music. It was his birthday, damn it. He wanted it to be awesome, but between work and the “I’m getting old” funk that creeps in after a certain age, he just felt “meh.” Normally, he’d be on his way home, get in the door, drop everything, find whatever scraps of food he could, and take out his stress on some poor unsuspecting pixels, but not tonight. He was on his way to his girlfriend’s place.
Don’t get it wrong, he was really excited– on paper. She had this whole thing planned, baked him this amazing cake, and had the whole evening prepared. She was really excited, had been all week, talking and planning. He was truly pissed and was trying his to get hyped up right now. He’d be damnd if he wasn’t gonna show up 100% for her. He was trying his best, but this guy always looking back at him, was not helping. He could feel the eyes on him.
He started doom-scrolling Reddit, maybe he could distract himself with someone else’s problems. As he scrolled, his screen kept getting brighter, like the adaptive brightness setting was fighting for its life. Even dark mode was starting to hurt his eyes. What the heck? He tried going to the settings menu, but it just blinked out, not like when it locks; it just died. Did it burn itself out? The music was still playing. He looked up.
The driver’s eyes were staring right at him, almost through him. A horrid feeling washed over him, and it made him want to puke. Blank, soulless eyes locked in terror, connecting with his through the mirror. He tried turning away, but he couldn’t break contact.
He forced himself forward, grabbing the seat in front of him, his eyes still focused on the mirror. In his peripheral, he managed to make out the driver’s seat. No one was there. He forced his eyes to the right but could only manage short little glances out the window. Nothing again. In the middle of New York City, nothing.
What? His hand constricted around his phone; he couldn’t release it if he wanted to. The hand just kept squeezing and squeezing. It hurt really bad, like the joints were getting pulled apart.
His body was stuck. He couldn’t even manage the little glances now. It was nothing like the movies. He always assumed the horror was in their head, not their body. God, it was painful, horrid even. It was as if he was sitting on air perfectly still, but every muscle and nerve in his body was pulling against itself, fighting to hold him in place, unable to quit.
His eyes kept widening, his lids peeling back in terror. They were drying out from not blinking. Cold air licking at places it should never reach. A flood of liquid ran out: his body trying to compensate. It rolled down his dark cheek, evaporating on his lips. Was it just water, or did he taste blood?
His music had been getting louder over time. Stuck on repeat. He thought he’d been listening to his favorite playlist, but whatever made him add this song? It was grating and antagonizing. He needed it to stop it. Pure anxiety made sound.
Drums echoing through an endless chamber; choruses in minor keys rippling up and down, weaving an unknown hymn. Clashing, yet rhythmic, the sounds flooding his senses. For a moment, he forgot himself, lost in the beat.
Then it hit him: this song wasn’t coming from his earbuds. His chest tightened. It was coming from everywhere, from the left, from the right, above his head, and below his feet, before and after. It was everywhere.
He was struggling to breathe; panic was setting in. The mirror shifted, melting into a single point. Everything was melting around him. He could feel himself drawn into the point. His body fought it, refusing to enter; it stretched and pulled, every cell choosing a different direction but the one he was pulled toward.
He didn’t want to resist at all. His brain was screaming to give in. Just let it take him. Let it go. Rip it off, rip it all off. Anything but this pain. This was unnatural, vile, a cold force pulling him between spaces that shouldn’t be. The natural laws of order forcing his body to resist, but another law forcing him forward.
