If you like my art, sketches, stories, transformations you can find more like this on my Patreon page or in DeviatArt Premium Early Access folder for subscribers here. Every bit of support is truly appreciated, but just having you here means the most to me - without you, none of this would have been possible. Thank you very much!
Check also my shop at DeviantArt for other works
It felt like the meeting in Dallas had drained every last bit of energy I was saving for the evening flight home, and now I could barely stand in front of the girl who was staring straight at me, still smiling.
– Name? – she repeated, like I hadn’t heard her. Which I hadn’t, actually, but that didn’t mean I… Ah, whatever.
– Greg... Greg Henderson – I blurted out my full name for no good reason, just as she grabbed a marker and, with a sharp, confident motion, scrawled it on a sticker and slapped it onto the cup with my “Americano, double, nothing else.” Her handwriting was bold, angular – almost like my former boss’s, who always signed papers like he was carving his initials in with a knife.
I stood there by the counter, feeling the dull ache in my lower back from all those hours sitting on planes, and the sting in my eyes from the cheap screen I’d been staring at during the meeting – and, in a way, from the exhaustion of always being the one holding up everyone else’s mess. I’m fifty. Two failed marriages behind me. One son, who’d picked Colorado over my company. And a solid reputation as a “tough but fair” boss. I’m that Greg – the one who always shows up first to the meeting and leaves last. The one who doesn’t let it show when anxiety gnaws at his chest. And now I stood in Terminal C, next to some basic coffee stand, and the world around me felt like it was slightly warping – like on an old TV when the antenna goes wonky.
– Greg? – the girl at the coffee machine called out, and her voice made me flinch.
– Yeah, that’s me – I replied, stepping closer. The cup was hot, solid, somehow heavy. Yeah, the day really had been a heavy one.
I walked out into the main hall, surprisingly spacious: soft light spilled across the floor from the giant windows, reflecting off chrome railings and the polished suitcases rolling past in people’s leisurely hands. I approached the departures board, squinting to read the numbers better – and then sighed, not sure if it was out of annoyance or relief.
The flight to Denver was delayed. An hour and fifteen. Maybe that wasn’t such a bad thing, even though I didn’t really want to hang around here. But home wasn’t much better right now – empty, with the hum of my old fridge probably the only sound, a noise I now couldn’t sleep without. And my bed was definitely cold.
I took a sip – burned my tongue. Winced. And then...
Something jabbed me in the back. It didn’t hurt, but it was sudden and sharp enough that I turned around on instinct. People were walking by, some rushing, some yawning, but no one even glanced at me. No sound, no apology, nothing. Just a faint chill crept up my spine, like someone had touched me with an icy finger and drawn it slowly from my lower back to my neck.
I jerked my shoulder, rubbed the spot, sliding my hand under the collar of my shirt. Yeah, there really was something there now – a slight bump, clearly tangible and cold. Like something tiny and foreign had hardened just under the skin – maybe the trace of a needle prick. Or maybe something else entirely. That thought made my breath catch for a moment. The air in the terminal suddenly felt thick, heavy, like someone had clenched the space around me into a fist and was slowly squeezing....