Time slowed. He wasn’t sure how fast everything outside was proceeding but here in the bathroom all was quiet, except…
Fluorescent lights shone a sickly light on the walls dulling the porcelain of the two sinks. Fake flowers stood in a vase set atop the long mirrors ledge and framed paintings of different types of fruit decorated the white tiled walls. It all seemed so normal, until he took his first breath. He realized he had not exhaled since entering and he took the opportunity to breath deep. Iron, sweet metallic, there was a thinness to the air but it was pungent and somehow hot. He felt his guts slightly convulse and looked to the floor, subconsciously following the stench. There were three stalls in the bathroom. The one closest to the door was were the death was coming from.
His pressed his back against the wall to the right of the entrance door. He could feel the cold tiles through his shirt, and hear his brain telling him, that little voice screaming at him, to get out of here and let the police take care of it. The dreams would eventually stop. All would run its course. He felt himself going towards that voice, sensing its rationality and finding comfort in it. No!, he thought and jolted back to reality.
A large pool of dark tar was oozing, getting larger from the front stall. He could see small dark forms block the tar’s path as it wound its way around them. Bile jumped up his throat. That wasn’t tar that was blood and those shapes were…muscle? Flesh? Pieces of the inside of a body? The bile was persistent. He took a hard swallow and slid along the wall away from the entrance door trying to get a grip. He felt the light switch stab his back and he was plunged into darkness. Fear seized him and he flailed around in a clumsy spin desperately feeling for the switch. Jesus Christ, moron, he thought to himself.
In the growing stench, the air now humid with what Kevin would come to know as the first stages of decomposition, as he slid his hand slowly across the cold wall tile, a gurgling sound came from behind him. This wasn’t part of the dream he wailed in his head. The dark man had never shown him this. More gurgles, like infected wet bubbles growing, multiplying, bursting in minute soaked pops. It was coming from the front stall. He was sure of it. In his paralysed fear he was able to realize that he had not heard the stall door squeak or creak. What am I supposed to do, he thought to himself one more time. His hand found the light switch and he paused.Outside he could hear the faint sound of sirens. He could also hear people out side murmuring, waiting to see what was going to happen. A child was crying. He could hear the mother telling her son to be quiet tears in her words as well. It was time to turn on the light. Hand flat on the light switch panel, cold steel, humid, iron, blood, the sound of someone dying, maybe the lady from his dream, he pushed up and the lights flickered on. He blinked the fluorescents back into his eyes, took a deep breath and turned around. The wet gurgling sound was still coming from inside the stall. He could hear slight squishing sounds like hands in a Halloween pumpkin. He moved toward the stall door.