The Cold Coffee Massacre

Date: 11/30/2025

I’m in the writing zone — no, the writing vortex. The place where reality dissolves and the only thing that matters is the clack-clack-clack of keys under my twitching fingertips. I’m a caffeinated keyboard warrior, firing out ideas before they evaporate from my overheated brain. The coffee I chug between cliffhangers is stone cold by the time it hits my throat, but I don’t care. I’m a woman possessed. Minutes smear into hours, hours melt into days. My eyes feel like they’re held open by matchsticks, but I must keep going. If I stop, the flow — my sacred, delirious flow — will abandon me. Then: the final sentence. The final full stop. The beast is complete. Rachel, a colleague from work, has offered to print it off for me. Which is kind — she didn’t have to go out of her way to help. But a personal cheerleader is comforting when those rabid, soul-shredding doubts start nibbling at my confidence like literary termites. We’re standing in the local petrol station… except it looks oddly American, like someone transplanted a Kansas gas stop onto British soil and hoped no one would notice. “Right, let’s get this book printed!” Rachel declares. “What?” My eyebrows collide in confusion. She points at a fuel pump. “Here.” And just like magic — or madness — she taps a few buttons and the pump starts printing my manuscript, pages fluttering out in a relentless, papery waterfall. “Marvellous!” I say. For a heartbeat, I believe it. But of course… I speak too soon. My psychological thriller doesn’t just print — It materialises. Characters claw their way into existence, dragging their narrative with them. Rachel and I become the unwilling protagonists. And the villain? About to enter stage left, armed with a chainsaw. A low rumble rolls over the forecourt. Rain slashes down in horror-movie timing. “Stop printing!” I shout. “Why? What’s—?” Rachel jabs at the pump. It keeps spewing paper like a possessed fax machine. “I think we’re about to be chased by a chainsaw-wielding psycho.” “Wha—?” Too late. A figure barrels towards us, hair plastered to his skull, eyes feral. My husband. Mat. Except… not Mat. This version is starring in a slasher reboot inside my dream — and we’re the meat. We sprint into the kiosk. “Call the police!” I yell to the cashier. “There’s a madman with a chainsaw!” The cashier points behind us. Mat stands there, chainsaw thrumming like it’s hungry. Rachel and I bolt down the aisles, throwing crisps and chocolate bars at him like sacrificial offerings. He hacks every one mid-air, the performance disturbingly elegant. “Why did you write this story?” Rachel wails. Blame drips off her words. He corners her by the freezers. She lifts her trembling hands. “You don’t … you don’t have to do this.” she whispers, voice barely a thread. Mat tilts his head — slowly, mechanically — like he’s listening to something far away. Something only he can hear. The chainsaw growls in his grip with a low, hungry vibration, as if it’s recognising fear and savouring it. “Mat!... mate…. Please—” Rachel breathes. For a moment, everything stills. Even the rain seems to hold its breath. A single droplet of water falls from his hair, hitting the floor between them. He steps forwards. He cuts her cleanly in half. Rachel’s scream never becomes whole; it cuts off in a soft wet choke. Her top half slips first — almost gently — like her body is bowing out of its own story. The bottom half hesitates, twitching once, reluctant and theatrical, before folding to the floor. Mat watches with eerie calm, eyes empty and shining, as though he’s admiring something he’s been waiting to do for a long, long time. He turns his head towards me. And the chainsaw purrs. I raise my hands. “Mat! It’s me! Your wife!” His eyes flicker. Recognition. Humanity. A spark of my real husband. Then he revs the chainsaw and charges. Just before I’m turned into yesterday’s plot twist, the universe yanks me away. White flash. And then — I’m outside a random house with a parcel. Postie-mode activated. “Oh brilliant,” I mutter. “From massacre to misery.” I knock. The door drifts open. A girl sits crying on the stairs, mascara puddling around her chin. “S-Sorry,” I stammer. “The door was open.” She leaps up, furious. “How dare you just walk in! I’m having a breakdown!” “I have a parcel for you…” I slide it gently across the floor. “I’m reporting you! Terrible work ethic!” “The door was —” SLAM. Fantastic. Arsehole customers truly are the confetti of my profession. I push my red trolley of doom down the road, adopting the dead shuffle of someone whose route planner hates them personally. But something is off. A cold shiver travels my spine. Footsteps. A beat behind my own. Plod. Plod. Pause. I turn. It’s the crying girl from the house — creeping behind a lamppost like a toddler playing hide-and-seek, stomach sticking out like a rogue balloon. “Why are you following me?” I call. She steps forwards. Her voice is hoarse. “I came to warn you.” Then she walks away and vanishes into the rain. Rain thickens, pouring down like the sky is sobbing too. I run for cover with my trolley. Rustle. Rustle. Birds? Wind? Leaves? No. From the trolley. My stomach drops. “What the—?” I lift the lid. Rachel’s severed head lies atop my parcels, her eyes staring with blank urgency. Like she’s trying to tell me something. A hand lands on my shoulder. I nearly ascend. It’s Mat. Normal Mat. Chainsaw-free Mat. He hands me a coffee like this is a cosy domestic moment. “Aww… thanks,” I say. I sip. Cold. Stone cold. Then clarity hits me like a freight train. There’s a severed head in my trolley. I’m stood in the rain with my husband. Everything feels wrong — scripted —dangerously familiar. “Run,” says a voice. Rachel’s voice. From the trolley. From her severed head. “What’s wrong?” Mat asks, stepping closer. “Want me to grab another coffee?” I step back. “No,” I whisper. His smile changes. Slowly. Silently. Darkly. The rain stops. The world holds its breath. “I just know how the story ends.” Behind me — A chainsaw roars to life.