The Backrooms: A Fading Memory

They used to call me knuckles.  Well, my mom did at least.  Her reasoning?  A rather good one.

When I was twelve and full of unpredictable hormones and the rage only a child of a yelling marriage could have, I punched walls.  Brick walls.  Specifically the ones behind my school, just out of ear shot and eye sight of teachers and my fellow peers.

I didn't year gloves and I didn't tell anyone.  It was just me, my raw fists, and a streak of anxiety I got from my mother's side.

It wasn't until I came home with raw knuckles shortly after turning thirteen that my mom took me to a doctor who quickly determine that I had broken my fourth knuckle.  When he asked if it hurt, I just shrugged.

With a quick flip through my medical file and a quick glance at me he ruled out that I had anxiety.  The kind that you get from your great grandmother's mom.  The kind you can't just cut out of your veins.

I went home that night with a bandaged hand and a sheet of coping skills, one of which was snapping a wrist band against my wrist.  I found this idiotic but four years later and there's a red line from where it hugs my skin.

The skin has healed, of course, but I still remembered the crimson and raw knuckles like the slaughter house meat right outside of town.  If I rub my thumb over my fourth knuckle I can still feel the bump and still see my father's disappointed face.

The point is, I know what raw flesh feels like.  And I know that what I just touch was, in fact, raw flesh.  But of what, I didn't know.  It's a wall.  If my memory serves me right walls don't have flesh.

I was so lost in thought I didn't notice that the flesh-wall seemed to move.  Pulsing, almost.  I leaned closer, keeping my distance as it continued its movements.

"Hey!"  

I spun around so fast I thought my ankle would snap in half.

At the end of the hallway stood a figure.  To far for me to make out a face or anything, but a figure nonetheless.

Now, I've seen enough b-list horror movies to know that this is in no way good.  But when you're desperate for another person, you're desperate.

I kept my mouth shut and the voice came again:

"Hey!"  The figure was closer to me now.  I could see it was a male and he was wearing a flannel.  He was moving quickly.

"I-"  

This had to be a dream.  Please God let this be a dream. 

"Hey!" He was twenty feet away now.  I squinted to make out his facial features.  I never had good eyesight, even with my glasses, but I did see one thing.

His ears.  More specifically, the blood dripping from them.

The one thing I love about species across the globe is our immediate response: Fight, Flight, Freeze.

I've always been a fighter, but shit do I know how to pick my battles.  And this was not one to pick.

I turned once more pass the wall and began speed walking.  Running would DEFINITELY alert it that I knew, and I couldn't have that just yet.  

I turned corner after Manila corner -Good Gravy why are these lights so damn loud? - until I believed I had lost it.  That or lost mind.  I considered stopping to cath my breath, but my relief was cut short by:

"HEY!" A deep guttural sound erupted fifteen feet behind me.  I turned just as a twelve fut naked humanoid with beady turkey eyes began striding towards me.

Now was the time to run.