The L Words
13 Oct 2019Today’s prompt: “Write a story using four L words: lipstick, lust, loss, locked.”
You wake up, your body curled tightly, your left hand on a metal drain in a concrete floor, your nose mere inches from the base of a toilet. A strong bleach smell cannot entirely cover up the odor of fecal matter, and you can hear the buzz of a bare light bulb. You try to stretch out and your foot immediately hits a wall. Your head throbs as you push yourself to your feet and take in your surroundings. It’s more stall than room, just a few feet across, just enough room for a toilet, a sink, and a door that opens out. A solid metal door. With weird symbols written on it in red lipstick. The symbols spill out onto the painted cinder block walls all around you.
Sigils, the word pops into your mind unbidden. The crazy old man who cornered you two nights ago called them that. He was muttering under his breath, a constant stream of gibberish to himself, until he saw you. And then he went on a loud rant. What was it? “The hungry ones have marked you,” he said. “Fly away, fly away, before they trap you with their sigils.” And then he started drawing weird symbols on the wall with a piece of chalk.
There’s a mirror over the sink. You look like hell. There’s a bruise by your temple.
You reach for the doorknob. Locked. You look for a toggle on the knob to unlock it, only to see a keyhole. What the fuck? Who builds a bathroom that locks from the outside?
You try the doorknob again, but your futile twists are unable to budge it in either direction. You slam your fist against the door. You kick it. “Hey! I’m locked in here! Someone help!”
You stand in silence for a few seconds, listening for footsteps. Nothing. You bang your fist on the door again.
You start to hear voices. You bang your fist harder, and shout. “I’m here! Help! I’m locked in!”
Still no one comes. And after a minute of unheeded knocking and shouting, you start to notice a few things about the voices. They’re coming from the floor. And while they’re not speaking any language you’ve heard before, you can understand some of it deep in your bones.
The voices speak of darkness, of void, of being trapped for age upon age. Of immense power lost – no, merely submerged. They speak of lust for blood, of the death of armies. Mostly they speak of hunger. Intense hunger.
The sigils begin to glow. Lipstick isn’t supposed to – ow ow ow! Your back – it feels like it’s burning!
You angle your back to the mirror and crane your neck as best you can. Nothing looks abnormal. You pull off your shirt. There. There on your back are lipstick sigils.
The sigils flare. “Ahh!” bursts from your lips.
The voices grow louder. The light bulb fades, but the sigils remain a bright red. And now you feel as though you’re falling. Falling through a void. Falling, until sinewy tentacles catch your leg.