GENRE: YA Speculative
I'll never stop hating the ice and blood. I see it when I sleep, so I don't sleep much. This time, insomnia caught up with me just in time for class, so I didn't even get to finish my essay. That's a shame, because the world needs it. The title page is beautifully formatted.
It wasn't a restful nap. I'm still sweaty and gross, and the air bites, even though the sun is high and bright. That just makes it worse, like it's mocking me. I really wish I’d grabbed a jacket before I left the dorms this morning as I crunch and kick through yellow leaves, cutting across the quad, weaving through a copse of trees, their limbs are sparse and skeletal this late in the Oregon October. Red brick buildings, trimmed with white paint, border the grass.
Everything is normal, but I can’t shake the feeling that the nightmares followed me back. I keep waiting for the grass and the trees to freeze over, for the people sunning in the quad to start shrieking, blood streaming from their eyes and down their faces. Nothing happens. So far, so good. No blood, no ice, no shrieks. Still, the day is young—no, it's more middle-aged, but there's some time for the world to go to hell. I avoid looking into anyone's eyes, afraid they'll see the nightmare playing in mine like a movie.
My muscles are tense, like my body's preparing to run without asking me first. Traitor. Saboteur, even. My chest thrums.