The Cruel Horizon

Angela stirs, the soft intrusion of light slipping past her closed eyelids. She groans quietly, rolling over in bed, and slowly blinks her eyes open. The first thing she notices is the dampness in the air. "Mark?" she murmurs groggily.

She turns her head, her heart skipping a beat as she sees him. Mark's face is pale, beads of sweat clinging to his brow. His eyes are squeezed shut, his lips moving in frantic murmurs she can't make out. The blanket covering him is damp with sweat, and his chest rises and falls in erratic, shallow breaths.

"Mark?" Angela's voice sharpens as she reaches out, touching his arm. He doesn't respond. Panic surges through her as she throws the blankets off him with a desperate yank. "Mark! Wake up!" she cries, shaking his shoulder firmly.

Mark's eyes shoot open, wild and unfocused. His body jerks upright, his hands clutching at his chest as a scream tears from him. "Please, no!" he shouts.

Angela freezes, her hands hovering in midair, her own heart pounding. "Mark," she says softly, her tone in forced steadiness.

Mark's head darts around, his eyes scanning the room. Slowly, his breathing begins to slow, and his hands unclench from his chest. He looks down at his arms, turning them over, inspecting the skin. "Yes… it was a dream," he mutters, his voice trembling.

Angela sits back on the bed, watching him closely. "Mark," she repeats, this time gentler, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mark looks up at her. He glances back at his chest, pressing his hand over it before whispering again, "It was a dream…" His voice cracks as he lowers his head into his hands, his shoulders trembling. "There was so much blood," he chokes out between soft, ragged sobs. "My chest… my chest…"

Angela crawls across the bed toward him, wrapping her arms around his hunched form, her hands stroking his back in slow, soothing circles. "It was just a dream, Mark," she says softly, her lips near his ear. "A nightmare. It wasn't real. You're here, safe with us."

"I'm sorry," Mark whispers, his words muffled against his palms. "It felt so real. I could feel it, see it…"

Angela tightens her hold, resting her chin on his shoulder. "I know," she murmurs. "But it's over now. You're awake."

The soft creak of the bedroom door breaks the quiet. Angela glances up to see a small face peeking through the opening. Cici stands there in her pajama top, her curly hair sticking out in sleepy disarray. "Daddy?" she asks, her voice hesitant. "Are you okay?"

Mark pulls away slightly from Angela's embrace, his tear-streaked face softening as he turns toward his daughter. "Yeah," he says, his voice gentle but hoarse. "Just a bad dream, sweetie. I'm okay."

Cici hesitates, clutching the edge of the door, her eyes flicking between her parents. "Okay," she whispers finally, before turning and padding back toward her room.

Mark exhales, dragging a hand through his damp hair. He clicks his teeth softly in frustration. "I scared her, didn't I?" he says, his voice laden with guilt.

Angela leans back, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. "Probably," she admits, her tone light. "Lydia too. She's probably standing in the hallway, eavesdropping right now."

Mark lets out a weak chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.

"Yeah, probably..."

**

Obinai wakes up groggily, his head pounding and his eyes unfocused. He blinks several times, trying to clear his vision. The light in the small cell is harsh, casting a sterile, bluish hue over everything. He finds himself in a hospital gown, his skin feeling cold against the fabric. As he shifts, he realizes his hands and feet are bound—the metallic cuffs still clamped around his wrists and ankles, keeping him glued to the cold metal chair he's sitting in. His arms are wrapped in bandages, and the dull ache in his body stops him from slipping back into being unconscious.

He looks down at the bandages, his vision blurring as tears start to form in his eyes. "How… how did I end up here?" he whispers to himself, his voice cracked and weak. "I was just walking away from her school… now, I'm here… why?" The questions swirl in his mind, along with a deeper fear—the fear that there might not be a 'home' to go back to anymore, that everything he knew is lost. "I just want to be with my friends," he whispers, his voice breaking.

Obinai's eyes dart around the dim room, taking in the shadows, the flicker of a fluorescent light overhead, and the harsh lines of the walls. He tries to push against the cuffs, but they're too tight, pinning him to the chair. Panic rises, and he feels the urge to escape—he has to get out, find a way to freedom. But as he tries to formulate a plan, his thoughts are interrupted by a voice, slipping into his mind like a shadow, making him shiver.

"By dying," it murmurs softly, the words sliding into his consciousness. The voice is low and smooth, almost hypnotic, and it makes the hair on the back of Obinai's neck stand on end. "Have them think of nothing to do with your corpse… now that would be something."

Obinai's breath catches in his throat. "What the hell are you?" he grits out, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anger. "What are you?" The laughter that follows is cruel and mocking, a sound that seems to echo through his skull. Obinai's hands clench into fists, his nails digging into his palms as he tries to resist the terror clawing at his mind.

"Tell me!" he shouts, his voice breaking as he fights against the restraints. "What the hell are you?" The laughter grows louder, and the sound digs deeper into his bones, making his skin crawl. He starts to say something else, but then the cell doors click open—sharp, deliberate sounds that freeze him in place.

Obinai's eyes widen, his gaze locking onto the door as it swings open.

** 

...The fun weekend feels like it's only just beginning as Mark and the rest of the family wrap up their time at the water park. As the day begins to fade, they decide to go out for dinner. Now, still a bit soaked, they sit together, enjoying their meal and chatting about the week ahead...

A gentle warmth envelops them as they settle around a small, round table in a cozy café. The air carries the scent of freshly brewed coffee and baked pastries—cinnamon, vanilla, and butter mingling together in a comforting embrace. The soft hum of conversation drifts through the room, accented by the quiet clink of ceramic cups and the gentle hiss of milk being steamed.

Mark sits with Angela and their two daughters, Lydia and Cici, a plate of warm, flaky croissants and a bowl of creamy soup spread out before them. The lamplight overhead casts a soft, golden glow. Outside the window, the twilight is settling in, painting the street in purple and blue hues.

Angela clears her throat, leaning forward slightly, her voice low but firm. "Cici," she says, a gentle admonition in her tone, "what did I say about keeping your elbows off the table?"

Cici pouts dramatically, lifting her elbows. "But it's harder to eat this way," she protests, her spoon waving in the air. "I already spilled a bit. What difference does it make?"

Lydia snorts softly, nudging her sister's leg under the table. "You're just lazy, Cici," she teases, "Next, you'll say you need a crane to lift your spoon!"

Mark can't help but laugh at that, his grin wide. But his laughter abruptly trails off when he catches Angela's half-serious, half-amused look. This kind of look says, 'Don't encourage them.' His laughter fades into a sheepish smile, and then Angela herself lets out a quiet chuckle.

Cici, sets her spoon down and leans forward, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "You know what's even harder than eating with no elbows on the table?" she says, voice dripping with feigned innocence. "Trying not to tumble down a water slide when you're busy staring at that cute guy in line!"

Lydia's cheeks flush pink, and she nearly chokes on her sip of water. "Cici!" she hisses, glancing around as if everyone in the café can hear. "I wasn't staring! I just... lost my balance. That stupid mat was slippery!"

Mark raises an eyebrow, his grin returning. "Oh? More happened at the water park?" he asks, leaning back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest. "Do tell."

Angela arches an eyebrow at Lydia, her tone turning playful. "A cute guy, huh?" She tries to sound stern, but the laughter tugging at the corners of her mouth gives her away.

Lydia groans dramatically, rolling her eyes. "It was nothing," she insists, trying to regain some composure. "Cici's exaggerating. I slipped because the floor was wet, not because I was distracted."

Cici giggles, tapping her spoon against the edge of the table. "Sure, sure. If by 'wet floor' you mean your brain spoofing at the sight of him, then totally, the floor was at fault."

Lydia shoots her sister a glare, but the effect is ruined by her bright red face. "I'm never taking you to the big kids area again," she mutters, half under her breath.

Mark winks at Lydia, suppressing a chuckle. "At least now I know what caused that bruise you have."

Lydia throws her head back, groaning. "Dad!"

Cici, triumphant, leans over her bowl, finally planting her elbows firmly on the table just to emphasize her point. Angela sighs, shaking her head but laughing nonetheless, as Mark reaches out to ruffle Lydia's hair.

"Alright, alright," Angela concedes. "Let's finish our meal before someone brings out a crane for our spoons. I think we've had enough excitement for one afternoon."

Mark grins, shaking his head as he picks up his cup of coffee. He takes a slow sip, letting the warm liquid soothe his nerves. 

I'm glad I have this, he thinks, his gaze drifting over the café's warm decor—exposed brick walls, hanging plants, and wooden shelves lined with colorful mugs. 

His expression falters as the thought crosses his mind. 

They don't, he thinks bitterly, his heart sinking. 

For most of them, it's gone forever.

He sighs softly.

Angela catches the subtle shift in his face. She reaches under the table and squeezes his knee. "Mark," she asks softly, her concern evident, "what's wrong?"

Mark startles slightly. "Huh?" he says, forcing a small smile. He notices Lydia's watchful gaze and Cici's curious tilt of the head. They're all looking at me, he realizes.

"I'm fine," he adds, setting his cup down and choosing to change the subject. "Hey, Cici, what's coming up at school for you? Any projects or trips?"

Cici scrunches up her face, thinking. She stirs her spoon in her hot chocolate, the marshmallows bobbing on the surface. "Nothing really," she says with a shrug.

Mark frowns slightly, puzzled. "Nothing at all? How so?"

Cici sighs, setting her spoon down. "Well, we have a substitute now. Mrs. N. hasn't come back yet."

Angela's brow furrows. She breaks off a piece of croissant absently. "A substitute? What happened to Mrs. N.?"

Cici shrugs again, her shoulders rising and falling beneath her sweater. "I don't know," she says, her voice dropping to a whisper as though it's a secret. "I overheard some grown-ups talking at lunchtime. They said Mrs. N. and her whole family disappeared."

The words land in the space between them with a heavy thud. Mark's eyes widen, a rush of adrenaline making his pulse pound. He chokes on his mouthful of soup, coughing as he quickly reaches for his napkin. His heartbeat drums in his ears. Disappeared?

...That can't be...

Angela's head snaps toward Mark, her brows knitting together. Lydia leans forward, her posture tense and curious. Cici, startled by her dad's reaction, tightens her grip on her spoon. The slight clink of metal against porcelain echoes in the hush that falls over their small, café table.

Mark forces himself to breathe, drawing in a shaky inhale. He sets down his spoon, his knuckles white where they clutch the napkin. "Peanut," he manages, trying to keep his voice steady, though a tremor sneaks into his tone. "Your teacher, Mrs. N. What's her full name?" He tries for casual, but everyone at the table can sense the strain.

Cici looks at him oddly, then slowly spells out the name, her lips forming each letter carefully. 

"N… O… B… U… N… A… G… A,"