Short horror story: Red (draft 2)

Despite my better judgement I entered the small rest room and was glad to see that it was vacant. I listen to double check but all seemed clear. In fact, according to the wall chart by the door it had just been cleaned. Not to be picky but going in a dirty rest room puts me on edge and no one wants to be on edge when taking a shit. My gut grumbles restlessly. Content with the privacy I hurried into the second cubical of two to do a number two. Quick as I can I do my toilet ritual; I check under the seat for spiders, I put the seat down and check it for splash marks, then I wipe it down anyway with two sheets of paper and finally I double check the amount of toilet paper. When I am satisfied I finally lock the door securely, sit and try to relax.

I am sat there for a few seconds... but nothing stirs. My gut groans and feels like it is tying knots. I wish I was at home where I am comfortable. I wish I had not eaten that burrito for lunch. A curse upon Sharon for suggesting I eat there. This is why I should not take food advice from anyone. Especially not temps from I.T. Support who I will never see again. Fuck foreign food. None of it is safe!

Alone and in silence I wait... I think I feel movement but, well, it's taking it's time - though you should not rush these things. Once I heard a rumour; a guy named Carl from Accounting had left half way through a presentation he was hosting to attend a 'private pool party', as he'd call it, (upon being asked he'd tell you that "The party was a success - I made quite a splash". Crude). Only he'd been constipated lately yet finally things were moving down there, but could not leave the presentation for long, so he'd pushed to hurry things along and, well, he pushed too hard and... the phrase that he 'fell through' has never been more appropriate.

A noise cuts through the silence. A constant drip...drip...drip of a leaky tap. I hate it when people don't turn off taps properly. I try to ignore it's irritating repetitiveness and notice the graffiti on the back of the door and parts of the wall. I read some of it to pass the time. Most of them are mindless tags by young, useless teenagers with no better way to make their mark on the world, but some are more interesting, have history to them. A story etched in time, like a gravestone I suppose.
“For thick cock call...” “...is a SLAG!” “Newcastle F.C.” “Don't beam me up Scotty, I'm taking a shi-” This last one amused me and I giggle. I feel myself loosening up.

Suddenly the rest room doors slam open, someone runs inside, instantly crashes into the cubical next to me and locks the door. The shock of the door slamming open caused me to tense up and the thought of some body hearing my back splash is intolerable. I have no choice, I'll hold it in until they're gone...

I try and think about something else but aside from how much easier this process would be in the comfort of my own home, a place too far for me to get to in time, there is nothing else worth thinking about. I hate public rest rooms. Breeding pits for germs and homosexuals.

A few minutes pass. The silence is awkward, broken only by the sound of whoever is in the next cubical breathing heavily. I am growing impatient, why won't they just go and then...go? My stomach is screaming at me! I try to read the graffiti again but it holds no interest the second time over.

...are they crying in there?

Curiosity overtakes my impatience. I lean a little closer. Their breath is softer now, I can tell that much at least. With hesitation I place my ear against the cubical wall. I listen...

Snivelling. Yes, definitely snivelling and... weeping. The sound of toilet roll being pulled and torn off in sheets. The sudden lack of whimpers indicate they are dabbing their eyes.

What is going on in there? I am tempted to knock gentle and try consul them but... would that be strange? What if it's some kind of Gay buggering code? What is the etiquette for this? What should I do, if anything? Oh, Lord I would convert in a SECOND if you'd make them go away!

THUD. It came from the cubical next to me. I jump but I just about manage to keep myself clenched and though I desperately try to remain quiet I let slip a tiny fart. There is complete silence for five, maybe six seconds and I wonder if they've heard me or not. I'd die if they did. I would just die. Cautious, I press my ear again firmly against the wall.

Nothing. I hear absolutely nothing. Which, I though, was odd.

THUD came another THUD then another and then... a carcoffany of exploding porcelain. The chilling shrieks of... I cannot tell, their voice is startled and mix pitched. I accidentally lose control of my sphincter and let loose to lost dignity in the presence of a stranger. This time I doubt my shame has been heard, or if it has, cared about. I throw myself away from the wall still attached firmly to my ivory white seat and frantically grasp at the paper dispenser with a free hand. It turns and produces sheets but my panicked hands won't grasp it. I should not be here.

Water flows through the gap under the cubical wall. I lift my feet up instantly but too late for my socks which are drenched. The lengths of white paper that I have tugged but failed to grasp unravel into the water and turn transparent as they merge. As I place my feet upon the door another wave of liquid fire escapes me. I should not be here...

There is thrashing, crashing, a struggle is occurring, the wall dividing wall trembles then cracks and contorts with a SLAM, pieces of lamination flake to the floor. SLAM. I push myself to lean as far into the corner as I can. I think I've shit on myself. I am stained but I no longer care. I no longer care about anything other when what is happening beyond the wall. This is a joke. Some horrible joke, surely?

Another SLAM shudders the wall then another then another and a wet smacking and smacking then violent CRACK. The wall dents inward and splinters plasterboard. That's when I see it. The redness. The Blood. Blood seeps beneath the wall and blends with water, trickling and spreading. Travelling fast it soaks into the paper and seeping, climbs up. Up. Up. Red taints the purest white. My eyes fix on this. The reaching, climbing corruption of red blood over white paper. It reaches up like strained fingers. Fear has me now. I cannot move. This is no joke. I could run for it, but I cannot leave here shit stained and trousers by my ankles. Besides, what if I only draw attention to myself, what if whatever is happening to the stranger next door should happen to me? I should not be here.

A form slides down the broken wall. I can see it... partially, from underneath the wall. A hand falls limp into view. Their skin is tanned. And suddenly the shock subsides as reality sinks in, the reality of the situation. That is a person in there. They are a person! They are a person! They are a person and they are dying!

I must help them.

Too late I realize that the screaming has stopped, or maybe it was me who was screaming. I don't know for sure or how long it has been this way. Time seems... distant. Reality is... slow. Colours appear drained of vibrancy, different hues of grey. I feel cold and tremble terribly. Light headed. I am gasping for air. I cannot breathe. I am having a panic attack!

Something slithering through broken porcelain is the only noise amongst the remaining silence. The hand beneath the wall twitches. A groaning sound as the hand turns to place it's palm on the toilet floor. I see the shadow of something I know I shouldn't as it snakes its way around the wrist and up the arm. I try to control my fear but it will not be subdued. Without being able to help the stranger I forsake cleaning myself in favour of fleeing. I throw myself to my feet and pull up my pants. Fuck the stains and fuck the smell. I must get out. I MUST!

I trip over my own feet to reach the door. My face greets the door warmly. The shock knocks some sense back into my head and lungs. I've bash my nose. Colour rushes back into everything. I am shaken but not deterred. I grasp the lock. A great snapping sound cuts the air in two. Something inside me feels a stab of ice coldness and I feel sick. I pull back the latch and throw myself out of the door. Out of confinement and into the open. The rest is a blur of motion and memory. But what I do recall is this: The mirror before me reflected bloody nosed me and what was in that cubical, for a few seconds I could not grasp what I was looking at. The door was torn from it's hinges revealing all inside and... and something sliding its way back down the drainage pipe. I - I believe that I passed out at this point.

When I came to one of your officers was standing over me with a pistol to my head whilst another officer handcuffed me rather roughly and now here I am. So, now that you know my story, I would like to see the photographs.

“How do you know there are photographs if you were unconscious?”

You are the police. You are obsessed with surveillance and records. Of course you have photographs.

“...Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

Until I see what I am accused of I refuse to incriminate myself further. I am, after all, innocent.

In his eyes I see reluctance but he won't get more from me. He produces a leather bound black faux-leather folder and slides it across the table. I eye it first, then open it. I feel that by looking back on these events I am somehow incriminating myself. I do not know why I expected the pictures to be black and white but I did. Instead they were red.
Pulp smeared across the walls and floor.
(Red)
A badly beaten corpse without a head.
(Red)