Stomach Tied in Knots

It's a muggy night, and there's a warp to the air around me that makes my stomach do somersaults.

I'm curled up in my living room, with a mystery book. I've tried everything possible to distract myself from the world around me, and not just the world in general, but the town I live in to be specific.

Despite the world's efforts to create cleaner energy, all failed. So what did everyone turn to? Oil. Everyone, including scientists, knew that the world's health was in a downward spiral, so we all turned to the same thing we've always used.

Some years back, the little town I've come to despise to an atrocious degree struck oil. And I mean big oil. It's been imported to places around the world with oil shortages, which seems to be everywhere these days, considering that's all anything runs on anymore.

The factories emit big billows of white smoke every second of the day, polluting the air with carbon monoxide. Everyone in the country was required to have a filter in their home after over three million people died of carbon monoxide poisoning in two months. Cars run on electricity surprisingly, but they don't last long, so most everyone has the old-fashioned, heavy duty gas guzzlers.

There are sirens in case a factory were to have a mishap, but usually they're pretty careful, and nothing has happened in the 93 years that this dystopia has been running.

I get up from my seat and look out the window into the night. The constant orange glow from the factories and town glares at me menacingly. There's not a single place in this town where there isn't at least a faint aura of orange.

I begin to cough, plagued by the constant hacking that follows everyone in this town because of the damned pollution.

What doesn't help my situation in any way or form is my fear of crude oil and petroleum. Everyone that knows me thinks I'm crazy for living in this washed-up town, but I have ties here that I can't cut that easily. But oil just...scares me. Something about both the thick, lumpy dark substance and the heavy gold liquid makes me squirm.

My stomach does a flip-flop. Something just doesn't feel right. Nothing ever feels right in this town though, so it's probably just my imagination.

I figure some sleep will shake it off, as it usually does. I grab my book and head to my room, pajamas already on and everything ready for a night's slumber.

My thoughts are racing though, the suspense of not knowing who killed the drug dealer in my book is killing me. Believing that finding that out is the only way to slow my thoughts, I pull back the sheets of the bed and get in, settling in and beginning to read from where I stopped last.

I finish three more chapters, and then comes the torture of the murderer from the drug lord. Oh, it makes my heart clench and my stomach knot up as the killer is strapped down and a plastic tube is shoved into his mouth. I have a feeling as to what's coming next, and sure enough, the drug king pours petroleum down the killer's throat, trying to get him to confess his crime. I slam the book closed and shut my eyes tight, willing the image of the scene and overwhelming feeling of nausea to go away.

I turn out the lamp on my bed stand and throw the covers over my body, wrapping myself in their comfort, trying to forget what I just read.

I shut my eyes, willing sleep to come fast. Soon enough, my mind is drifting far away, to a place buried deep in the subconscious...

***

I'm running. Running so fast. My legs hurt, and my lungs feel too tired to work anymore. But I have to get away; from what, I'm not certain, but I know that I have to keep going.

My surroundings are so vivid, it makes my head spin. The way the bricks of the buildings jag out is so sharp, and the smell of exhaust and fumes hangs heavy in the air. I have to get inside, and quickly, before the exhaust gets into my system. I make a sharp right towards the nearest building. I swipe my hand in front of the sensor, and I hear the lock click open, and I bolt inside. Once the door is shut and sealed, I hear the filters turn on, and relief washes over me.

I practically fall down when I finally realize I can catch a breath. I hold my sides, trying to calm my breathing and make the running cramps go away.

Before I can recover though, I hear the seal of the door open. Shit. I look up to see the most grotesque and horrifying thing I could imagine.

He's covered in thick, black oil, from head to toe. His hair is matted and parted in odd spots. He must have gotten it in his eyes, because they have a milky grey tint to them. His skin is peeling in places, revealing disgusting and bloody flesh, puffing up from infection.

I gasp and back up quickly against the wall, basically trapping myself. I feel the wall beneath my fingers, and my heart stops as I assume what the liquid under my fingers is. I lift a shaking hand for inspection, and sure enough, there's a slippery oil coating it. I look at the wall and I go into hysterics. Oil is seeping down the walls.

My heart is beating a million miles a minute. The oil man makes his way towards me, so I try darting around him, but he catches me despite his slippery grasp and throws me to the floor.

"What am I?" he asks in a harsh and raspy voice.

I whimper, just wanting to get out of this nightmare.

"What am I?!" he asks again.

Knowing he doesn't want a name for an answer, I take in a shaky breath before answering.

"M-my...my husband."

He kicks me in the stomach, almost knocking the wind out of me, but he knows my limits.

"And what are you?" he demands.

"Y-yours," I wheeze.

"That's right, you slut. How many of those disgusting pricks have you slept with while I've been gone?" he orders, kicking me again, this time in the shins.

"None," I sob.

"How many, goddammit!"

"None!" I scream at him. "I haven't slept with anyone, I swear. Just please...please..."

"Please what, you stupid whore?"

"Please, just leave. You're gone, why are you still here? I haven't done anything, I promise," I beg.

His eyes harden over with anger. "You want me to leave? For what, so you can go sleep with all the boys you can get your hands on?" He stoops down to my level as he straddles me.

My eyes widen in fear, having no clue what's going to happen. He puts his hand around my throat, but he doesn't squeeze. As long as he doesn't squeeze, I won't squirm because of that. Then he leans down so that his face is only inches from mine. He lifts his other hand and puts a finger to his lips, signaling silence.

"I love you," he says in a hurt voice. "Why would you want me to leave? But then again, you said I was already gone, so maybe I should take you with me," he babbles on like a madman. Not that he isn't one.

He grabs something behind me and pulls it toward us.

"Baby, I just want the best for you. Now, I know you won't like this, but you need to learn to listen," he tells me, speaking as if to a child.

He pulls a tube down to my face, bringing it closer and closer to my lips, and it isn't until it's in my mouth that I realize what he's doing.

I thrash around, my face hot as tears stream down my cheeks. His weight is too much though, and there's nothing I can do. He turns on the spout, and I practically shrink into myself when the oil hits my tongue. I try spitting it out, but it's pouring too fast.

I know that there's nothing I can do, so I give up, feeling it fill up my lungs and stomach. And it hurts. It hurts so bad as I drown in my fear...

***

I wake up practically choking, and then I hear the sirens. I'm disoriented from my dream, but it's clear that something is very, very wrong. I fling the sheets away and jump over the filter's home screen, made to inform us of what's going on if something were to happen, and it's clear that something has.

It reads in bold letters 'FILTER SEAL FAILED. RETREAT WITH CAUTION TO NEAREST SAFE HOUSE. EXTREME CO2 LEVELS.' The closest safe house is well over 15 minutes away, and I don't know how long the sirens had been going before I woke up, so I could die in any course of five to fifteen minutes, seeing how high the carbon monoxide levels are.

It hits me that I don't have much of a
chance, and that there's really no point.

I'll die the same way my husband did, falling victim to the oil of this wretched town. We had been fighting the night before his tragic death, and it seemed as though the fumes from the factory were really getting to him. He had accused me of sleeping with a man who didn't even exist. The next day, my beloved fell into an oil well, and drowned in his insanity.

As I sit back on my bed, I don't cry. I don't have some great revelation as I lay back down and pull the covers up to my chin. No, my death is not one to remember. I can already feel the toxicity of the air entering my system as I feel nauseous. I feel lightheaded and I take a deep breath, just willing it all to end at this point...

My fear was my death. We are afraid for a reason, and that funny feeling you get in your gut? Believe it.