Final Destination: Chapter 1

He licks the last bit of remains of liquor off his bottom lip. He blinks hysterically at his wet shaggy Goldilocks soaking through the shoulder blade of his dress shirt. The wet fabric sticks to his flesh, and he begins to shiver behind the shower curtain. His head leaning beneath the facet, Wyatt arches his shoulders in discomfort as he is surrounded by the cold porcelain walls. He scrunches up his toes and pulls his legs up to his chest. Muffling his chest like a blanket, just so he can feel a little comfort.

Wyatt didn't though, the thought of last night makes his heart beat hard and the sounds he remember last night makes his heart beat twice as hard. Scanning for answers around the empty tub, he is convinced he is the last to survive. The last that he remembered is Marie Laveau stumbling over the tub as she screamed, "Monsieur don't kill me." Remembering the scarred face Marie Laveau had as she was bent over the tub tugging at the collar of his dress shirt when she needed him most. Wyatt was surprised the man didn't see Wyatt's gray shirt being flung over the tub and constantly tugged on. She was pulled by her ankles, she looked like she was willing to bite her own foot off.

If she could have reached her foot in time, maybe she could have survived, but he had hauled her away. He grasped the few strands of hair in his hand and she disappeared through the dark hall. Wyatt sits up, push himself up by the walls of the tub to look over. He peaks over the walls, intimidated by the flicker of a light bulb dying out over the cracked mirror. His breathing is steady, taking in little breath, he feels light-headed. There is no smell of rotten corpses, or like a run over skunk smell anywhere near.

He flings his right foot over the tub and out the other foot, following along. Wyatt stands over the tub, shaking. Teeth chattering as he wraps his arms around his chest as if he'd lost his shirt. He was not sure if he should be moving, he thought he should stay quiet till a couple dumb-witted youngsters decide to throw a party. Maybe when another one gets sick too, they might run into the shower. Wincing with the idea, Wyatt had hoped they would find him up against the tile walls. Before he waddles back to the corner in the tub, he feels a sharp pain pressure into his side, while his chest tightens with barely oxygen to breath.

Wyatt stumbles out the door, it is not as dark as it was last night, but with the light coming in from the bathroom window. It shed some light a few inches away from where the door was at to down the hall. When he reaches the door, he inhales as much oxygen he could handle, before he begins to walk. As he is swaying his body from side to side, uncertain that he can hold his balance. Wyatt falls with a hard thump, groaning with little agony as he tries to stay silent. Holding his tongue, he grips his side and push himself back up.

He almost believe he lost his breath for a second. When Wyatt reaches the staircase, he's tempting to fall over on his back down the stairs. He could barely make it through the hallway without losing his balance, he thought he can lose his balance while going down the steps. He release the railing and lean forward as the staircase moves closer to his fall. The wooden stairs move in so close, he shuts his eyes as he stumbles down. First his back slams against the nosing as he rolls down the stairs.

Jag edges from the thread of the stairs, pressuring into the depth of his skin starts causing something similar to the feeling of splinters in his fingers. But his side is the real reason he hunches his body. Scrunching his body up like a moving caterpillar on the flooring, it feels like fifty thin knives in his side. Then running all along his arms and waist it resemble needles all around the parts the stairs gut him at. While Wyatt waddles through the dark house, almost unseen by the dark he blend in, he makes it to the door. Reaching for the knob, he almost pulls back; a low whistle with a pitch end calls and Wyatt is startled.