It’s Only A Game – Short Story (SW #17)

It’s Only A Game – Short Story (SW #17)

Heyo Bookaholics!


For this storytime, I chose to write from a prompt found off of Pinterest. I see so many of the posts in this format and I’ve always wanted to write using them but never had the idea on what to write until now! The prompt I am using is pictured below. I didn’t attach a link as I am unsure of the official origin of the photo, but I believe it could be from this tumblr.

Disclaimer: It is Thursday the 13th of September today, which is ‘R U OK? Day’. Please turn to your neighbour, friends, family, anyone and make sure that they’re okay, and please please look after yourself.

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Last night was fun. I don’t remember much past 10pm, but I’m sure it has something to do with excessive alcohol consumption and maybe some small – very tiny – usage of recreational drugs; hence why I am now hobbling into the kitchen at 1pm begging for water and a panadol.

My vision blurring at the edges as I feel my way through my darkened house. The blinds all still drawn from the night before. Sober me is a legend. Any hint of light sends a sharp pain through my temples, far too much for my sensitive eyes to process right now.

I continued to shuffle down the hallway by feel, my foot brushing the bottom of my old bed frame that sat in the hallway and I cursed myself for not moving it sooner. I exit out into the living room and grimace. It’s brighter out here, but if I’m quick, I could go back to my dark sanctuary sooner.

My hand whacks against something hard, probably a chair, one I don’t remember being there last time – as you can tell this same situation has occurred before – but I didn’t bother to check, so very determined to get what I need and leave; but it seems like that today isn’t going to work out that way.

I’d reach the kitchen in a few steps and slam a glass down into the sink, the sound echoing around the empty house splitting my brain in two. I always leave a glass on the bench as it doesn’t seem logical to wash it if I am constantly drinking (water) anyways. The rushing water is lulling me back to sleep and I didn’t even try to fight the heaviness that washed over my head, shoulders and eyelids as they became too heavy to hold open.

Laughter sounds from behind me and I join in, giggling at something I don’t care to even identify. The feeling of scraping at the back of my throat halted my laughter as I tried to take in air, the simple task now difficult and painful; so I do the logical thing and reach for water, my hand instantly hitting the waterfall of cold water still flowing into the sink, never having filled the cup I’d placed in there.

“You humans really are dumb.” Someone behind me begins to speak, their voice masculine, but smooth like honey (I know cliché but true). That shocked me awake, my hand yanking away from under the tap, water splashing all over the countertop and floor. More laughter. More mess to clean up.

“WHAT IN THE SHEET!!” I scream, the sound of my own astonishment sending another split through my already decaying brain. Sitting atop the chair that had indeed moved from its original position is a scrawny red-skinned male with a singular horn protruding from his forehead; his hand lifts giving me the most unpleasant view of charred black nails at the tips of long boney fingers.

He laughed more and kept staring at me. “You called me, remember?” Humour and accusation hang in his words and I have no damn idea of what he wants me to remember. Right now I just want to remember to stop hallucinating and to move the hell out of here because these jeans I am wearing feel wet down the inside of my leg.

“Okay so I’m hallucinating and I can’t even remember what happened last night. Damn Susan said those pills were clean.” I mutter crazily to myself trying to will the daemon out of my kitchen, as well as ignore the fact that on my table lies a spirit board, the planchette still on the board.

“Oh no Susan was most certainly telling you the truth about those pills. Still dumb of you to take them.” It speaks again and I begin doing the only logical thing I can think of. I pray. “You know that won’t work if you don’t believe in the prayers right?” Oh, now it’s as much of a smartass as I am. We will not get along, he cannot stay here – wait he isn’t real!

“Shut up! Shut up! You aren’t real!” I’m trying to convince myself mentally and verbally but all evidence suggests that I have actually woken up, and my headache isn’t just from alcohol anymore but stress.

“I most certainly am real, so rude of you to suggest it after what you did to me last night! I am also hungry but I had to cancel my dinner to come when you stupid kids called me, so imma make your life shitty now.” Okay, we really are not going to get along.

PART 2…?

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If you liked this I really want to hear your thoughts on what part two would be about and if you’d be keen on reading more?

Comment your favourite writing prompts below so we can share them around with each other!!

Leave your opinions in the comments or alternatively on my social media channels!
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1 - It's Only A Game - Short Story (SW #17)

With Love Bree xx

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