Inkling 2025 - Flipbook - Page 17
The subway platform stretched into
shadow, lit by the occasional 昀氀icker of a
dying 昀氀uorescent bulb buzzing like an insect
too stubborn to die. The stale air smelled
faintly of rust and something sour—old
sweat and forgotten time. A single candy
wrapper skittered across the 昀氀oor, pushed
by a wind that shouldn’t exist underground.
Each footstep echoed too loudly, as
though the station itself was listening. The
tiled walls were cracked and stained with
memories no one had cleaned away, gra昀케ti
bleeding into decay.
Beyond the yellow line, the tracks yawned
like a black mouth—silent, waiting, endless.
I listen as droplets fall from a leaking pipe,
each one landing with a soft plink in a
shallow puddle. I step closer and peer into
the water.
Nothing.
No re昀氀ection. No face. No person. No thing.
No me.
Like I was never here.
“Everyone is gone. Why?”
A metallic screech bursts from the left
tunnel. The sound was sharp enough to
split thought—metal on metal, shrieking
like a scream caught in a vice, twisting into
my skull. I drop to the ground, clutching my
ears. Then—silence.
I feel the warmth of my breath as it bounces
o昀昀 the 昀氀oor. I push myself up, palms
scraping cement, hands trembling. I walk to
the yellow line. Down the tunnel, just before
the light fades the train stands frozen.
Through the window: nothing. No lights. No
people. Only stillness.
I glance back. “Maybe if I just wait.”
The space becomes more clear—broken
benches slouched against stained walls,
garbage smeared across the 昀氀oor like
old scars. Against the far wall: a beat-up
vending machine, its glow pale and sickly.
Inside, a moldy chip bag, a melted chocolate
bar, and tucked in the corner… a can.
Black Juice. No label. No price.
Lips cracked like old paint. Skin rough. The
sight of the juice made my stomach coil;
only then did I realize how parched I was. I
reach into my jacket.
Cold plastic. Smooth. Heavy. The can is
already in my hand.
I stare at it, bringing it close, listening to
the liquid slosh, slow and thick. I can’t tell
what it is, can’t see through it. But there was
nothing else here; no food, no water.
I sit. The bench’s rough wood bites into
my palm. I pop the can with a crisp hiss
and drink. It tastes like tar and metal and
something more bitter than jealousy or
hate. I gag. Thick. Black. I clamp my eyes
shut and force it down. I can’t believe I just
drank that.
As if the taste wasn’t enough to make
me sick. It slides thick and slow into my
stomach. It burns.
I stand. The room starts to dance. The
ground bends. Walls sway. Then—collapse.
Hands and knees scrape on rough ground.
The heat roils up my throat. My breath
shudders. The world spins, over and over.
My stomach spirals with it. Heat creeps up
and down my throat. My mouth 昀氀oods. I try
to hold it back ... but I can’t. I vomit.
One jolt after another, no pause to breathe.
Minutes pass. Everything inside my
stomach splashes onto the 昀氀oor. My body
shakes. I can’t control my arms or my legs.
Panting, I look again. A black pile of liquid
pools beneath me. It’s not blood. Not food.
It’s the Black Juice.
Arms trembling, I roll onto my back,
drained. Slowly, my vision steadies. The
INKLING 2025 | 17
