Lungs

LUNGS

I woke up as the clock on the bedside bled its red digits it to the dark. It was 3.24am. I took one long breath as my eyes opened. The smoke from the pack of Marlboro’s we’d finished earlier still clung to the warmth of the air. Sitting up with my hands behind my back melded into the pillow I heard something. I turned to my left and saw Ella lying on her side against the wall. Her hands were in a prayer position under her chin propping her head above the weak pillow that was still attempting to suffocate her with its contours. I felt her soles against my chins under the dark navy duvet that was reflecting the red glow of the alarm clock radio. Ella’s shoulder length blonde hair was in waves drowning her profile. Some make up from the night before had smeared the pillowcase. In the red glow it gave of a brown tinge. Her breathing was smooth and quiet, as if she was testing perfume in Selfridges. The noise wasn’t her. It was coming from outside. I checked the clock, 3.25am.

I unwrapped the duvet like a child first thing on Christmas morning checking what’s under the tree, but not wanting to wake up the parents. I sat on the edge of the single bed. I stood up staring at the curtain. My right knee clicked. Creeping up to the desk beneath the window, the noise was getting louder. I could describe it now; it was a marathon runner’s gasps for air. I looked back at Ella, just to check it wasn’t her, but she was cocooned in the duvet. Her breaths were elegant. It wasn’t me, I was breathing through my mouth. I could feel my heart beating like a gentle knock at the door. I checked the clock, it was till 3.25am.

I was standing in front of the Ikea desk beneath the window. My arm became a phantom limb and before I could stop myself, zombie like I lifted and slowly drew back the coarse blue curtain. Against the setting of the fresh snow I saw a black shoulder in a ski jacket. I continued to open the curtain at a steady speed. It felt like ice was running through my veins when I saw it. The white windowsill was bare and matched the snow outside. My reflection wasn’t showing in the window. The phantom limb had disappeared. I now had no control. I was suspended in rigor mortis. My clenched fist sent cold shooting pains up my arm and to my chest. The pains were limiting the beats of my heart to a slow steady beat.

He stood there. Glaring. I could hear his heavy breathing through the single glaze. There was no condensation on the window. No ice. No water off his breath. Snow was falling all around. But none touched the man. His face was a skull with flesh. No colour but that of bone. Grey eyes hiding in the grottos carved out of the cliff of his brow. I could see nothing in them. They were empty. Just black. The full moon laid no light on his shoulders. His figure was gaunt and thin, but muscle clung onto his bones. You could see the indentations; they were greyer than the bony skin. He blinked.

I spun around, his gaze no longer held me. I turned to wake Ella - To scream - To shout - To get the knife.

The bed was empty.

The duvet was no longer carefully unwrapped but draped across the bed leading to the door.

I swivelled back around to the window. My feet hadn’t left the ground since I saw the face breathing. There was nothing. The window had iced. Snow was settling. My eyes were wrenched open - my breaths that were drawing shorter were now shaking. I checked the clock, 3.26am.

Then I heard it over the hedges at the back of the garden, a shrill scream. It wasn’t a fox or the wind. It was Ella. I knew her screams from play fights we’d always have. It lasted for only a second, but echoed in my head until I had reached the front door. I ran through the bedroom door - past the stairs - tearing my Barbour from the banister and into the kitchen - I found my shoes underneath the table - bending beneath it I hit my head but felt no pain - I hit it hard like a solid bang - but the adrenaline countered the pain. I put the leather loafers on and ran to the draw next to the oven - I yanked it open and the moon which shone through the kitchen window danced of the stainless steel metal blades - I grabbed the biggest, shiniest one making a chime of metal and ran - Ran to the front door - I flung it open. The wind pressed the stripped pyjama bottoms against my shin; they whipped up showing my ankles. The blade was in my fist. The shooting pains had gone. I ran to the side gate and into the back garden where the scream originated.

He had come.