The boiler sounded like a lung collapsing.
My mouth was dry and the headache pulsed around my skull. I looked out in the darkness and back to my phone.
10:39am. No bars.
Just the orange glow of the street light. I caught a glimpse of myself; the surface of the mirror shifted. The colours bled out.
I took a breath.
I pulled the curtains, heard the low hum of the street light. I watched a bird fly from the trees. Like a getaway, upwards till it fell.
The empty thud as it made contact with the concrete.
I backed away from the window. Sweat dripped down my back. Scrambling to unlock the door.
It stuck.
Until finally I was out to the street.
Silent, empty houses.
Sale signs.
One street light went out and the next one went on. I ran along the street and they lit up.
I took a deep breath and I ran. Down the path and into the cemetery, dead flowers and photographs.
And here, a new grave. The earth piled high.
I saw a fox move between the rows. The grave was just mud and earth. I picked up the dirt and held it in my hands. Looked up to an empty sky.
The noise in my head growing. I got up.
Over the old railway track, there was a car parked in the middle of the road, doors open. I ran to the shore, right to the water’s edge.
My hands went down to the water. I looked down.
My hands were blue.
I saw smoke rising along the beach. There was a figure.
I thought of the mirror.
He said, “You’re late, did you forget again?”
It started to rain, it painted us blue.
He pushed me away as he disappeared.
I turned and ran.
Past the car, the cemetery, but I kept moving.
The street lights followed me back, or I followed them.
In through the front door.
Wheezing.
I wrote.
The dawn broke outside my window.
(C) Paul Andrew Sneddon
