Knightmare

Two months later.

Ethan rushed through the hospital hallway in full sprint, his mind in chaos. His thighs pained from running. The hallway knew no end. It felt as if the faster he ran, the longer the hallway got. He rested, his hands dropping to his kneecaps. Ethan panted like a dog as his lungs lit on fire.

He noticed the door come closer to him and the hallway shortened with every second he stood still. The damaged sign on the white door read 'ICU' in bold red letters. Ethan waited for the door to slide in front of him before swinging it open to reveal one patient lying with a speck of life on a bed. His mother.

"Mom!" he shouted.

She snapped her head to Ethan in response and, despite her state, sat up in her bed. She looked just like the day he lost her. Her skin was rotted and peeling off, her eyes were sunken in and she had barely any muscle mass on her.

He tried to walk towards her, but the floor became sand, making his feet sink. The more he struggled, the quicker he sank. From the sand emerged a pair of hands clutching his shirt and pulling it down. Ethan tugged at his shirt with all his strength, trying to free himself, but their grip was too strong.

His mother slid her legs to the side of the bed, disconnecting the ventilator mask and standing up on her two feet. Walking towards Ethan as he was sinking, she stood on the edge of the sandpit. Ethan met her gaze. There was only a hint of life in it. I can still save her, he thought.

Ethan extended his hand, asking for her help, but her eyes merely shifted back and forth between his eyes and his hand. The young scientist's eyes pleaded, his entire body except his face consumed by the sandpit.

"Please," he begged.

His mother finally grasped his hand and, with one firm yank, pulled him out of the sandpit. The woman in the hospital gown was staring at him. She took a step closer to him. Swallowing the accumulated saliva in his mouth, Ethan resisted the urge to move a step back. She, with her frail, bony body, embraced him. Tears rushed down his cheeks, dripping onto his mother's skin. He felt her skin soften at the touch of his tears, returning to their original color and texture. When she released him, she had recovered; The effects of the virus were not visible.

He wiped the tears from his face and cleared his misty eyes, a small smile appearing. His face lit up like a lamp. Suddenly, he heard the slice of a knife cutting through flesh. His mother's eyes widened, and her face froze. She collapsed at Ethan's feet, blood pooling underneath him. The blood flowed to the extent that Ethan felt it seep into the soles of his shoes.

"No, no, no…Not again!" he said grabbing his mother's body, trying to stop the bleeding.

The faceless hooded figure stood with his arm outstretched holding the bloody knife. Underneath the hood was a dark and deep abyss that made Ethan dizzy. The hooded man dropped his head to face Ethan's feet. The pool of blood had widened and somehow deepened.

"It's time to go, Ethan. She's not coming back," the man said.

The hooded figure removed his hood revealing a familiar face. His eyes were green and his hair brown with many strands of white as well. Ethan stared at an aged version of himself. He had wrinkles around his eyes and his cheeks sagged. He may have looked frail, but Ethan saw the same eyes of vengeance in his future self.

He advanced towards him. Ethan took a step back for every step his clone took forward until he hit the hospital wall. The hospital closed in on him until he was in a white box accompanied only by his clone and his mother's body, the pool of her blood growing by the second.

The young scientist fell into the blood as if he was just dunked in the ocean. He flailed his arms trying to keep himself afloat. His heart raced and pounded in his ear. His breathing spiraled out of control. He had always feared drowning in the sea but drowning in his mother's blood was worse. The figure turned his head to Ethan's outstretched arm.

"Wake up," he said watching Ethan's face disappear beneath the blood. A red tint washed over Ethan's gaze as he tried to make out what the man was saying.

He heard a muffled voice. It became clearer over time until he could hear exactly what the man was saying.

"Wake up."

Ethan's eyes snapped open, and he sprung off the bed he was sleeping on. A skinny man about a head shorter than Ethan (which was still a respectable height) stumbled backward and hit a lampshade with his elbow.

"Sorry," he apologized. "I didn't mean to startle you, but the boss asked me to come to check up on you. Are you feeling better?"

At least I'm not drowning, Ethan thought. "Uhm, yes, I am. Tell him I'll be in the kitchen in a few minutes."

The man chuckled, "Actually, he asked me to tell you to take the day off."

"Just tell him I'm better and I can still work."

The man nodded and scurried over to the door. He exited the room leaving Ethan all alone.

"Just a dream, Ethan. Just a dream," he muttered to himself as he neatened his apron and went to the sink to wash his face.

He opened the tap and cold water rushed out into the sink. He waited for the water to warm up. It was the middle of winter and there was no way he'd dip his hands or any part of his body in that. Ethan stumbled back as he looked in the mirror. His face was dripping with blood. What the hell, he thought. He shut his eyes tight and rubbed them with his hands thoroughly before opening them again. Nothing. His face was clean as a blank canvas.

He let out a sigh of relief. Ethan noticed the water was boiling when the mirror began to steam up. Much better. He washed his face, the water stinging his skin which he didn't mind. It was much better than his face turning numb from the cold. After drying his face with a towel, he grabbed his cap and headed out of the room.

"Order number thirty-five! Thirty-five! Two steak specials, medium-rare and medium fries!" shouted the waiter from the entrance of the kitchen.

A man with a platter rushed past Ethan, the steam hitting his face. "Chicken platter, table four!" the chef shouted as he placed it on the counter for collection by one of the waiters.

Ethan always had a passion for cooking ever since he was nine. His goal in life then was to become a chef. Little did his nine-year-old self know, that cooking in a restaurant isn't as quiet as cooking in your mom's kitchen. In fact, ever since he'd left the lab, he'd been getting recurring headaches from noise and dizziness. He'd always attribute it to the chaotic kitchen and its suffocating environment that he had still not gotten used to. Nothing to be concerned about, he told himself. A bit of Ibuprofen tablets and a quick nap took care of that.

He looked at the clock above the entrance to the kitchen. He had slept through most of his shift.

"You okay, Rider?" the owner asked as he passed by the kitchen.

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine now. I can still work, sir."

"You will do no such thing," the owner insisted. "You need to take care of yourself."

"But I don't have any sick leave left and I need to pay my b—"

"Don't worry about that. I'll pay you in full, okay?"

Ethan, taken aback at first by his manager's generosity, smiled. "Thank you, sir!"

The Boss patted him on the back. "Go see a doctor, kid. You've been getting sick too often ever since you joined two months ago. A check-up isn't going to hurt. I'll even pay for it if you want me to."

"No thanks, sir," Ethan said with a grateful smile. "What you've done for me is more than enough."

"Good," he said with a chuckle. "I want to see you back to normal for the end-of-year celebration with the staff, okay?"

Ethan nodded and greeted everyone before leaving. On his way out of the restaurant, he picked up his backpack from the locker.