The Cruel Horizon

...silence...

...faint, creeping noises begin to intrude upon the silence. Obinai hears shrill, distant screams, piercing and chaotic, yet eerily familiar. The sounds press against his consciousness, but he doesn't react. His mind, heavy and sluggish, struggles to process the noise. "What is that sound?" he wonders, his thoughts disjointed. "Can't everyone just… be quiet?" Then he remembers...

Back to reality...

With a sudden jolt, Obinai's eyes snap open, and he screams. His body lurches forward as he sits upright, his breaths ragged and shallow, his chest heaving as though he had been suffocating. Sweat clings to his skin, cold and damp, making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his back.

His hands instinctively move to his face, rubbing at his forehead as he squeezes his eyes shut. "Just a dream," he mutters to himself, his voice shaky. "It was just a dream." He exhales slowly, trying to calm his racing heart. The wetness on his forehead feels cool against his fingertips, and for a fleeting moment, he allows himself to relax, leaning back onto his bed.

But then, something feels off. His bed is too hard. The soft give of his mattress is replaced by an unyielding, cold surface. His brows furrow, and he opens his eyes slowly, expecting to see the familiar ceiling of his room—but what greets him leaves him speechless.

The stars stretch endlessly above him, a breathtaking canvas. Each pinprick of light shimmers like a diamond, scattered across a vast expanse of inky black. The Milky Way sprawls across the sky, its pale ribbon glowing softly, a sea of light and dust. Constellations Mya once pointed out him on quiet, clear nights now blaze more vividly than he ever remembered.

Obinai stares, his breath caught in his throat. Tears well up in his eyes, spilling over as awe mixes with an ache so deep it feels like his chest might cave in. He reaches up to wipe his face, but his hands stop halfway. He looks down, and his stomach churns. His palms, trembling in the dim light, are slick with a dark, crimson liquid. Blood. Familiar, sticky, and undeniably real.

"No…" he whispers, the word barely audible as his heart pounds in his ears. His breaths come in sharp, shallow gasps, his body trembling as he looks around. Slowly, he sits up fully, his gaze darting frantically across the space.

Around him are fragments of familiarity—his desk, the notebooks and homework he'd been avoiding, the posters of bands and movies that once brought comfort. But everything is scattered, the items misplaced and tilted at odd angles as though a giant hand had reached in and shaken the room violently. His laundry, which he always promised to clean, lies in a crumpled heap, but it is dusted with debris.

And then he looks up again. Where there should have been a ceiling, there is nothing but the endless, unbroken sky. His room opens into the cosmos, the edges of the walls jagged and broken as if the upper floors of the building had been ripped away. The sight sends a fresh wave of confusion and dread coursing through him.

"This doesn't make sense," he mutters to himself, his voice shaky as his mind reels. "We're on the middle floor… where's the rest of the building?" He presses his hands to his temples.

He looks around the room again, his eyes scanning the familiar chaos of his belongings—his desk, his notebooks, his posters—but his initial gaze missed something as this time his eyes catches on something that stops him cold. His breath hitches, and a wave of nausea washes over him. Blood. It's everywhere. Thick, dark smears streak the walls, pooling ominously on the floor. His heart thuds painfully in his chest, his pulse loud in his ears as he takes a shaky step forward.

"No…" he whispers, his voice barely audible. His feet feel leaden as he moves closer to the nearest streak of blood, his hand brushing against the wall for support. The crimson handprints are unmistakable, dragged down the plaster. His legs tremble, threatening to give out beneath him.

"Mom?" he calls out, his voice cracking with fear. The word barely escapes his lips, trembling with desperation. "Mya? Dad?" The silence that answers him is suffocating, a heavy weight pressing down on his chest.

He takes another hesitant step forward, his breath shallow and quick. "Is everything okay?" he asks the void, his voice breaking as he speaks. 

As he moves around the corner of his bed, his foot catches on something, and he stumbles slightly. Looking down, he sees a pool of blood soaking into the carpet, the dark stain spreading outward like an ominous shadow. He freezes, his body stiff as he slowly lifts his gaze to take in the rest of the room.

The sheets on his bed are torn and stained with blood, the mattress split open and soaked through. It takes him a moment to realize that the spot he woke up in—the spot he thought was his bed—is actually the middle of the room.

"Mom?" he calls again, louder this time, his voice trembling. "Mya? Dad?" The silence calls back to him, the absence of any response amplifying his growing terror. Tears blur his vision as he steps cautiously toward the doorway, his hands shaking so violently that he has to clutch at the wall to steady himself.

He rounds the corner, his breath hitching as his heart pounds in his ears. 

"Please…" Obinai whispers, his voice trembling and barely audible as he forces himself forward. His vision blurs. His entire body screams at him to turn back, to retreat into the comforting denial that nothing is wrong. But his heart drives him forward, each shaky breath a prayer, "Please be okay. Please."

When he finally steps into the hallway, his breath catches in his throat. His legs freeze, and his mind reels.

Scattered across the blood-soaked floor, partially obscured by overturned furniture and crumpled papers, are the bodies of his family. His mother lies closest to the wall, her once-soft features frozen in a mask of horror. Her wide-open eyes stare vacantly at the ceiling, her hand outstretched toward the dining table as if she had been reaching for something—or someone. Blood streaks down her face, pooling beneath her head and staining her favorite floral dress a deep crimson.

Beside her, Amos—his father—lies in a grotesque heap, his body twisted at unnatural angles. His right arm is bent backward, the bone protruding from his elbow, white against the dark red. His glasses are shattered, one lens missing, and his jaw hangs slack and broken, his lips parted as though he had been mid-shout. Blood has soaked through his shirt, the fabric torn in jagged lines across his chest.

Obinai's gaze shifts, and his stomach churns violently. Mya's small form is crumpled near the hallway's far corner. Her face is turned away from him, her tiny body almost blending into the debris and blood that surrounds her. The bright pink shirt she loved to show off is now soaked through, the cheerful color swallowed by deep, seeping red.

"No…" Obinai breathes, the word barely audible as the strength leaves his legs. He collapses to the floor with a dull thud, his knees striking the cold, blood-slick tiles. His chest tightens painfully, his breath coming in short, erratic gasps. "No, no, no!" he screams, his voice cracking as he drags himself forward on trembling hands and knees, the sticky blood clinging to his skin.

He reaches his mother first. Her hand, cool and stiff, sends a shiver down his spine as he grips it tightly. "Mom…" he chokes out, shaking her limp arm. "Please… wake up. Please." But her empty gaze offers no comfort, no recognition.

He turns to his father next, his tears falling in heavy drops onto Amos's bloodstained shirt. "Dad…" His voice wavers as he grips his father's shoulder, trying to shake him gently despite the unnatural angle of his arm. "Don't leave me. Please, Dad. Wake up. Tell me this isn't real!" His sobs deepen, wracking his body as he buries his face against Amos's chest, the familiar scent of his cologne now mingled with the sharp tang of blood.

Then his gaze falls on her...

"Mya…" he whispers, his voice barely more than a broken breath. Crawling to her side, he reaches out with trembling hands and rolls her over gently.

His breath catches as he looks at her face—so small, so still, her wide eyes now devoid of their usual sparkle. Blood trails from the corner of her mouth, streaking down her cheek. Her pink shirt, once vibrant, clings to her frail frame, drenched in dark crimson. His trembling hand brushes her cheek, and he lets out a strangled sob.

"I thought it was a dream…" he mutters, the words tumbling. "It had to be. It was so real. Then… what is this?" He grips his head, his fingers digging into his scalp as he shakes his head violently. "What is this?!" His voice cracks into a scream.

As his gaze lowers, he notices something more—a detail that sends a fresh wave of nausea through him. Her entire right side is torn open, the ragged edges of her small torso revealing viscera that spill onto the blood-soaked floor. The sight burns itself into his mind, every detail sharper and more horrifying than the last. He recoils instinctively, falling backward, his hands slipping in the slick blood beneath him.

"No!" he screams, a primal, guttural sound that rips from his throat. His body trembles uncontrollably, his vision swimming as he stares at the gruesome scene before him. The metallic scent of blood fills his nostrils, overpowering and inescapable. He slams his fists into the floor.

"Mya, I'm sorry!" he sobs, dragging himself forward again. He cradles her in his arms, the warmth of her blood seeping into his clothes as he rocks back and forth. "I'm so sorry. I should have been there. I should have stopped this!" His voice is raw, hoarse from screaming, his tears falling freely onto her lifeless face.

In the distance, faint laughter ripples through the oppressive silence. Obinai's body stiffens, his breath hitching as the surreal sound reaches his ears. It's his family's laughter—light, familiar, and hauntingly out of place. The laughter twists and morphs into screams, echoing in his mind, each one clawing at the edges of his sanity. 

Clutching Mya's lifeless body closer, he rocks back and forth, his voice trembling. "It's not real," he whispers, trying to convince himself. "This isn't happening. It can't be happening."

Over the pounding of his heart, another sound emerges—footsteps. Faint at first, distant and almost dismissible, but they grow louder, more distinct. Obinai freezes, his body tensing as the rhythmic sound of boots and lighter footfalls echo through the hallway outside. His head jerks toward the door, his breath caught in his throat.

The footsteps are purposeful, deliberate. A group. Each step reverberates ominously in the suffocating quiet. Who are they? he wonders, his thoughts racing. Are they here to help? To finish what they started?

The room is deathly still except for his uneven breaths and the relentless approach of the footsteps. He can't stop shaking. His hands tremble uncontrollably as he tries to wipe his tears away, smearing blood across his face. 

He looks down at his sister again, the sight of her torn body making bile rise in his throat. He tries to hold her closer, but his hands are slick with blood, and the sensation makes him recoil, his stomach churning as he scrambles backward on his hands and knees. "I… I'm sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking as he collapses to the floor. His chest heaves, and a guttural retch tears through him. He doubles over, his body convulsing as he vomits, the acidic burn in his throat barely registering over the storm of grief and nausea.

Wiping his mouth with a trembling hand, he collapses onto his side, curling into himself. Sobs wrack his body as he lays in the cold, sticky puddle of blood, the world spinning around him. "This isn't real," he mutters to himself, his voice muffled against the floor. "It can't be real. It can't."

The footsteps grow louder, closer. He hears the faint murmur of voices now, low and urgent, their tone impossible to decipher through the pounding of his heart. Panic claws at his chest, his breaths coming in sharp, shallow gasps. What do they want?he thinks, his mind spiraling. What are they doing here?

His body trembles as he hugs his knees, trying to make himself as small as possible, as if the world might forget him if he could only disappear into the shadows. "Please…" he whispers, his voice barely audible. "Please just go away."

The murmurs grow louder, the voices coming closer. He still can't make out the words, but the urgency in their tone chills him. The footsteps stop just outside the door, and the silence that follows is deafening, more oppressive than the noise.

Then, with a loud crash, the door slams open, the sound splitting the silence like a gunshot. Obinai flinches violently, his body curling tighter as the blood-stained air rushes in around him. The footsteps advance quickly, closing the distance in seconds...