It started like an illness. He would get horrible chills, and wake up in a cold sweat. He was confused all the time, never knowing where he was or what he was doing, not even what time it was though a clock was on his nightstand. When she brought him his gold wristwatch, he shrieked like the devil had overtaken him, eyes mad as a cornered animal. They thought it may have been some strange new virus, or an obscure bacteria. Or worse, he was on some kind of drugs. Either way, not to worry-the doctors could puzzle it out. But they couldn’t. At last, life had to go on. He couldn’t stay holed up in his house anymore, huddling in the corner and blinking anxiously when the lights would flip on, fluorescent yellow streaming over him. So he went like a ghost, floating through the motions of existence as if he was a hazy dream—or nightmare.
She felt a horrible sinking feeling when he passed by, heavy stones of panic settling in her stomach, and reached out for his wrist. Her eyes opened wide as her fingertips brushed his icy skin. He was freezing, cold as death. His blank stare sent chills up her spine the most when he turned to look at her. There was something off. His eyes were still brown, but she could have sworn they were a lighter hue she’d never seen in them before. Their color resembled amber or…gold.
His sickly yellow skin stretched tight when he attempted to smile, and then he was gone. She didn’t stop him. She should have.
Before the ailment, he had a successful job in corporate management. His latest deal had been between their offices and a jewelry seller. If he wanted to keep his high position--and possibly land an even better one—he was required to attend a formal dinner party his boss threw in honor of the newly signed contract and slip back into her good graces. Usually, he would have driven, but something about his yellow Lamborghini revolted him that day. He walked the short enough distance instead, sweat breaking out under his fancy jacket, the sweltering sun beating down on him. His feet dragged along, feeling heavier and heavier the farther he went. Blood pounded in his skull, throbbing at the back of his mind louder and louder until the world was blurred around him. Just as he was beginning to wonder if he should have borrowed his sister’s car, he blinked to clear his dimmed vision and realized he had arrived.
The building heat ebbed away as soon as the door swung open immersing him in the cool air. Inside, elegant people milled about chattering vaguely or emitting faint laughs. He blinked again and drifted inside, nearly bumping into the woman by the door. She grinned wide offering her hand for him to shake, words spilling from her mouth, but he couldn't focus on them. His eyes were fixed on one of her slender fingers, the one with a glittering golden ring.
He felt nausea rising in his gut and he swayed. Suddenly, the room was freezing.
“David? Are you alright?” He distanced himself from her, still staring at her ring. Unendurably bright light glared from the depths of the cool metal, gold shining brightly against pale white. His heart beat too rapidly, icy tendrils of horror blooming in his chest. It was so cold, too cold. She c***ed her head peering at him concernedly and he noticed them now. They were swinging from her ears, winking at her throat. Gold.
“David?” He could no longer hear her words, but her voice rang in his ears and would not stop. Terrified eyes flitted around the packed room. The crowd pulsated like the blinding lights. Voices rising higher and higher, reverberating off gold glinting at their necks, their heels, their wrists, their hair, even swirling within their darkened eyes. It encased him in a sparkling tomb. Everywhere was gold.
The liquid gold was drowning him, filling his lungs, bubbling up his throat. He coughed violently, spinning on his heel to grasp the door handle.
“Wait! Where are you--?” He needs to leave. He needs to get home. He muttered to himself vaguely, but his lips froze before forming the next word. His hand reaching out for the door halted. The door knob was gold.
His sister back home tried not to worry, even as the clock ticked away. Every hour past when he should have been home increased her anxiety. Finally at 3 am she couldn’t bear it any longer. She decided to drive herself to where the party was supposed to have been held, sending her brother a quick text message before she left: Where are you? What happened? Her fingers drummed impatiently against the steering wheel at the red light. Her phone buzzed and her eyes fell on the lit up screen displaying her brother’s message. Two words: They’re red.
Fear swelled in her being and she gripped the steering wheel tightly, her knuckles white. The rest of the drive she worried what happened to him, the worry stabbing into her with greater force at each stop light. She sprinted for the door when at last she arrived, so scared she didn’t even notice how odd it was that it was already open.
Her brother was there, huddled in the corner like he would be at home. He was shuddering, rocking himself and mumbling about the cold. Not a soul other than him was in sight. And to her horror, from head to foot--he was drenched in blood.
No matter how long they searched, the police never found the other people that had worked at her brother’s office. And he would not say, not when she begged him, pleaded with him. Not when his lawyers warned him it would be the chair if he stayed silent, and there would be nothing they could do for him. She could have shouted at him all day until her voice was hoarse; he only ever smiled vaguely, his expression hollow, always answering with the same response: “They aren’t gold anymore.”