Glasgow Nightmare Journey
My heart pounds as I exit Glasgow Central Railway Station, the night air crisp, wrapping its cold fingers around me. The streetlights flicker, casting elongated shadows that dance across the pavement. I'm heading to my home on Renfrew Street, just a 15-minute walk, but tonight, it feels like an eternity away.
As I turn onto Hope Street, the city's pulse fades into silence, replaced by the eerie quiet of midnight. The neon glow of a nearby McDonald's sign offers a momentary respite, its familiar golden arches promising warmth and comfort. "Fancy a Big Mac for a late-night snack?" I muse to myself, trying to lighten the mood.
But my attempt at humour is short-lived. Ahead, on the corner of Bath Street, I see a figure, slumped against the wall. As I approach, the figure, an elderly woman, lifts her head, her eyes meeting mine. "You alright?" she asks, voice surprisingly chipper for someone in her condition.
"I... Yes, I'm fine. Are you okay?" I stammer, taking in the horrific sight. Her arm is twisted in an unnatural angle, bones protruding, a gruesome testament to the violence of the night.
"Oh, this?" She chuckles, gesturing to her arm with a wince. "Just had a bit of a tumble, but other than that, can't grumble, mate."
Shocked by her nonchalance, I nod, murmuring words of comfort I don't believe, and continue on my way, my pace quickening.
The journey becomes a surreal nightmare. On Sauchiehall Street, amidst the shattered windows of a Tesco Express, I spot a young man, his body covered in deep, jagged cuts. "Lovely weather today!" he greets me, blood pooling at his feet.
"Jesus, what happened to you?" My voice is barely a whisper, horror gripping my throat.
"Ah, just a disagreement with some glass," he says, chuckling darkly. "But other than that, I'm doing alright, cheers."
I leave him with a promise to call for help, my phone clutched tightly in my hand, the battery dead. The irony isn't lost on me; so much for EE's claim of "The UK's No.1 network for 5G." Tonight, it can't even give me a lifeline.
As I near Renfrew Street, the silhouette of my home is a beacon of hope. But my relief is short-lived. On the doorstep of my neighbour's house, a figure sits, drenched in blood, a smile playing on her lips. "Busy day, huh?" she asks, her voice eerily calm.
I can't respond, my eyes fixed on the gaping wound across her stomach. "Oh, this?" She laughs, following my gaze. "Bit of an accident in the kitchen. But other than that, pretty good, thanks for checking."
Reaching my door, my heart sinks. There's no handle, no lock, nothing but smooth wood where my salvation should be. Panic rises, a scream tearing from my throat, echoing into the night. And then, silence.
Stuck outside, the realization hits me; I'm trapped in this nightmare, the horrors of the night replaying in my mind. And as I stand there, the slogan of McDonald's whispers like a taunt, "I'm lovin' it." But love is the last thing I feel as madness begins to take hold, the absurdity of my situation blending with the terror of the night.