Prompt: Take the first sentence from a favorite book and make it the first sentence of your post.
For this prompt, today I’ve chosen The Name of the Wind by Patrick Rothfuss.
It was night again. The dark crept around me, silence deadening the air. I drew a shaky breath, the sound deafening in the quiet room. I held my breath, counting to ten, waiting and listening. No one moved. No thing moved.
I tested my arm, lifting it halfway before the pain was too much and it sagged limply against my side. I needed to relocate my shoulder. Step one.
The wall was solid against my back; it would have to do. I pushed myself up, cradling my arm, trying not to think about how much this was going to hurt. I lifted my shirt, balling it enough to have something to bite down on. Dizzy, I bent my arm, placing my elbow against the wall. Taking a deep breath, I slowly leaned, letting my elbow slide up the wall, spikes of pain shooting through my arm. Just a little farther.
My shoulder slid back into place with a sickening pop that seemed to linger in the small room. I released my shirt from the death grip of my jaw, sigh turning to a whimper as I gave my shoulders an experimental roll. Now for step two.
Step two was getting the hell out of this place.
The battery on my phone blinked; I didn’t have much light left. Looking around, the room appeared to be a custodial closet. Decaying bottles of chemicals drooped on shelves, their content congealed and useless after years of neglect. No one had been in this hospital for years. At least no one that ever made it out.
After a bit of searching I found a mop that was still intact. I took a deep breath, placing the mop on the floor and snapping off the end. The crack echoed in the silence. I held my breath. No one moved. No thing moved.
It was a poor excuse for a makeshift weapon, but I felt safer nonetheless as the door creaked open. The hallway was clear, at least for now. I kept close to the wall, pausing before each open doorway, taking shallow breaths before peeking around the corner, sure that each room would be my last. The decrepit rooms were barren of anything useful, old gurneys rusting in corners covered in dust and grime and whatever the hell that pink ooze was.
I’d grown used to the quiet when the door slammed open. I slid against the wall, stifling a shriek, slipping into the nearest room. Crouched behind the door, I waited. There was no mistaking the footfalls outside, the squishing sound of that writing mass. I held my breath as it got closer, waiting, praying to a God I’d given up on twenty years ago. The steps moved past.
I waited until the silence was back, dizzy from relief or lack of oxygen or both. Peaking out, the hallway was deserted. A fresh path of pink slime wound its way through the space. I paused, looking at the pattern; it was almost like it had been swiveling its head around, like it didn’t use its eyes to find prey.
Step two: get the hell out of this place.