Retail Therapy by Charlene Wilson

This is a little short story that I wrote.....

Retail Therapy

It is amazing the amount of things you accumulate over the years.  Books bought but unread, clothes yet to be worn, appliances unused.  At the time you convince yourself that life will be so much better if you had that dress, those shoes, this blender or whatever it is that takes your fancy.  However the following week you’ll find yourself trawling the aisles of the nearest department store searching for yet another item to fill the empty void. 

What void are we trying to fill?  Well that is a question and a good one at that.  The answer, well I guess it depends on whom you ask.  Some may just enjoy the ‘buzz’ that they get from this so-called retail therapy and others may be trying to keep up with ‘the Jones’.  I have always wondered who these so called “Jones’ ” were.  Why not ‘the Smiths’ or ‘the Griffins’?  I’m sorry I’ve digressed; I tend to do that a lot.

If someone were to ask me why I need all of my wonderful purchases, the answer would be simple.  I have to have it.  I don’t know how to explain it.  There is something inside me that yearns for it and it will haunt me day and night if I didn’t get that cashmere sweater or those pearl earrings and once the purchase is made, ah the absolute bliss that I feel is unmatched by any substance or tipple that I could lay my hands on.  It’s pure and although short lived, while it lasts I am in heaven.

Unfortunately my penchant for spending has meant that I have a lot of things and I can’t take them all with me.  I am downsizing you see and the flat, it only has one bedroom so it cannot hold everything.  I will miss the high ceilings and big windows of the old house but you know change doesn’t have to be bad, you can treat it as a new beginning.  Terrence doesn’t quite share my optimism.  That might explain why he’s not coming with me.  He’s not staying in the house, we had to sell it to clear some debts, or should I say my debts. 

Terrence has decided to rent on his own, says he needs some space but I am hopeful that he will come round, especially when he knows that I am here getting actual therapy instead of the retail kind.  

My gosh, I have rabbited on haven’t I.  I tend to do this when I am nervous, I have probably given you an earache, but hopefully this answers your question as to why I am here.  Anyway my time must be up now and I’d better get going.  You see I want to pop to Debenhams, it’s the blue cross sale and I need a few things to brighten up the flat, as it’s not as picturesque as the old house.  Same time next week?

Let's Start Again (ABC Tales competition entry)

Lucy stared at the potatoes laid out in front of her. They were starting to dry, dull and knobbly in comparison to the smooth granite worktop. Absently she reached for her Shiraz. She stopped abruptly as the glass reached her lips. It was empty. With a sharp sigh she turned to the worktop behind her and frowned. An empty bottle looked back at her. Lucy blinked as she tried to remember how much she had put in the jus. With a small shrug she slid a fresh bottle out of the wine rack, humming along to the aria drifting from the stereo as she did so. She glanced at the dining table as she removed the cork in one quick movement. It looked good, she had to admit. The flower arrangement was minimal and tasteful. The silverware shone like tiny mirrors, the crystal sparkled in the candlelight. Now she just had to get dinner right. The pork was steadily roasting, the smoked salmon parcels waiting patiently in the fridge. All she had left to do was sort out the sides and assemble the Pavlova.
Lucy gasped. She whirled around to the oven, nearly knocking over her replenished glass in the process. Cursing she grabbed her oven mitt and pulled open the door. Sweet smoke stung her eyes as she blindly pulled out the hot tray and dropped it onto the worktop. She slammed the oven door shut and leaned on the worktop heavily. Reluctantly she looked over at the meringue. It was ruined. She bit her lip as she picked up the tray and marched over to the bin. Her eyes prickled with hot tears as she stamped on the pedal.
“Lucy?”
Her husband’s distant voice cut through her thoughts. She listened to the front door close at the other end of the house. Hastily she wiped her eyes on her apron and flung open the fridge door, carefully counting out enough eggs for a second attempt. As she slammed the fridge closed Tom walked into the dining area, loosening his tie as he looked over her handiwork. With shaking hands Lucy carefully placed the eggs on the worktop. She looked at the digital display on the oven. 18:33. He was late.
“So, how’s it coming along?”
Lucy glanced up at her husband as she carefully separated the eggs over a large mixing bowl. He sat a clear plastic bag of limes and two bottles of Cava on the table, disturbing a precisely placed napkin in the process. Lucy averted her eyes back to her task. Involuntarily she clenched her teeth.
“It would be coming along a lot better if you had made the effort to get here on time.” She muttered, throwing the egg shells into the bowl of yolk. Her cheeks burning, she immediately regretted her outburst. She heard Tom take a deep breath as she shook sugar over the egg whites.
“Look, I’m sorry. My meeting overran. Then there was a huge queue at Waitrose.” Tom pulled off his jacket and slung it onto the back of a chair. He looked up to see Lucy stiffly carry the bowl over to the electric mixer.
“Give me a break, Luce...”
Lucy snapped the plug into the socket and switched on the mixer. Tom watched her back as she focused her attention on the frothy mixture. He shook his head to himself and picked up the bottles. Steadily he walked over to the fridge and nestled them next to the cooling bottles of white. He paused for a moment before walking over to her, and softly rested his hands on her waist. Her frantic mixing slowed to a stop as her body suddenly convulsed with a jagged sob. Tom gently reached to switch off the mixer and guided her to face him. Lucy blindly clung to him as he stroked her hair. Gradually he felt Lucy’s body begin to still against his.
“That’s better. Now, let’s start again, shall we?”
Lucy swallowed and pulled herself away, roughly wiping her face with the heel of her hand.
“It’s a bit late for that, isn’t it? I’ve managed to ruin the dessert, and I haven’t even made a start on the potatoes. And... And just look at me.”
Tom looked down at his wife. Her large bloodshot eyes searched his face. He felt a pang of guilt. He should have known this would be too much for her. He pulled her to him again and gave her a squeeze, hiding her bewildered face against his chest.
“Darling, you look fine...”
Lucy pushed herself away from him again and turned back to the worktop.
“No I don’t. I look a wreck. And your boss and his wife are due any minute.”
Tom consulted the clock.
“Look, we have plenty of time. You finish off the pudding and make a start on the veg and I’ll get these potatoes sorted. Then you can pop upstairs and get ready. It doesn’t matter if you aren’t here to meet and greet, does it?”
Lucy shrugged and picked up the mixer.
“Well, I guess you should know. You see more of your boss than you do of me these days.”
She switched the mixer on again before he could respond. Tom silently opened a drawer and picked out a potato peeler. Lucy was right. He had been working a lot, but it was for her. Even in his head, he knew it was a cliché, and his timing was more than a little off. But he couldn’t help that.
The mixer suddenly came to a stop, the abrupt quiet startling him. He turned to see Lucy artfully scooping the glossy white mass on a lined baking tray. He smiled brightly.
“That looks great. You’ve done a great job, sweetheart.”
Lucy let out a bitter laugh.
“Well let’s just hope I don’t burn the damn thing this time.”
She slammed the tray into the oven and took a mouthful of her wine. Tom glanced at the empty bottle stood on the worktop. He averted his eyes back to the potatoes.
“You should go easy on the wine, Lucy.”
Lucy arched an eyebrow at him as she carefully put the glass down. She pulled out a pack of vegetables from the fridge and tore at the plastic.
“Why? Worried I’ll make a fool of you in front of the Big Cheese?”
Tom hesitated. “No. I just don’t think it will mix with your tablets, that’s all. And you know alcohol is a depressant.” He added quietly.
Lucy roughly snapped the stalks of the asparagus. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t need those tablets if you were actually here for me rather than hiding from our problems in that wood panelled office of yours.”
Tom turned to look at his wife. The tightness in her jaw emphasised her sharp cheekbones. It struck him how much weight she had lost since it had happened.
He felt his face flush.
“I’m... I’m sorry.”
Lucy’s hands became still for a moment. She looked up from her task, her eyes staring through the mosaic tiles in front of her.
“So am I. I’m sorry you felt the need to have a bit on the side when I was pregnant. I’m sorry I lost our baby. And I’m sorry you feel like you can’t even be around me anymore.”
Tom carefully laid down his knife and scooped up the prepped potatoes. He dropped them into a pan of water waiting on the stove.
“You have nothing to apologise for. You did nothing wrong.” He said softly.
Lucy turned to him, her mouth open.
“Then why did you do it, Tom? Why did you run off and sleep with someone else if I hadn’t done anything wrong? If I was satisfying you in the bedroom, you wouldn’t need to go elsewhere, would you?”
Tom looked down at the floor and shook his head rapidly. “It wasn’t like that. I told you.”
Lucy dropped the broccoli in her hand and laughed incredulously.
“Yes, that’s right. You did. You just needed to escape from the concept of fatherhood, from responsibility, from stability, right? Well you don’t need to worry about any of that now, what with a wife who can’t even carry a baby for more than five months and is slowly losing her mind.”
She shook her head and turned back to her task.
“Be careful what you wish for, Tom.”
Tom took a deep breath and thrust his hands in his pockets.
“You’re right, Luce. I was scared, scared of so much. But right now I’m bloody terrified.”
Lucy snorted as she pulled out a pan from the cupboard next to her and threw in the vegetables. She placed it on the hob and hastily pulled off her apron.
“So, what are you going to do now, Tom? Run away again? Stick your head in the sand? Get up to your elbows in some other woman?”
She looked at her husband with cold eyes as she flung her apron under the sink and walked out of the room. Tom listened to her footsteps on the hardwood staircase and closed his eyes. He didn’t know if she would ever forgive him and he couldn’t blame her. But he wasn’t willing to give up on their marriage. He looked at his watch. Their guests were due in six minutes. Decisively he strode into the hallway and bound up the stairs two at a time. Lucy looked over at him as he jogged into the bedroom. She was already stripped to her black lace underwear and opaque tights. Tom averted his eyes from her fragile body and cleared his throat.
“Lucy, I’m going to make things right.”
She looked at him blankly before turning back to her wardrobe. Mechanically she began to flick through the rail of dresses. “So how exactly are you going to do that Tom?” She asked, emotion absent from her voice.
He watched her as she pulled out the black dress he had bought her the day they got engaged. She stepped into the silk and carefully arranged it over her angular frame before padded over to the dressing table. As she spritzed herself with Chanel Tom caught her eye in the mirror.
“I’m going to get a promotion.”
Lucy stared at him for a moment before her mouth curved into a smile.
“A promotion? How lovely. Then we will see even less of each other.”
She turned to her make-up bag and began to powder her face. Tom watched her carefully.
“No, Lucy. A new job in another office. Where I get to call the shots. Somewhere away from here, where we can start again.”
Lucy snapped shut her compact and reached for her blusher.
“Oh really? And where would that be? Leeds? Manchester?”
She wrinkled her nose as she applied the colour. Tom shook his head at her reflection.
“No. San Francisco.”
Lucy paused, her blusher brush in her hand, and glanced over her shoulder. She met Tom’s eyes briefly before resting her gaze on the neatly made bed.
“Really?” She asked quietly.
Tom smiled tentatively. “Yes. Somewhere new. A great place for you to get back into your painting, and... and for us to start a family.”
Lucy looked back at his face, her eyes wide. Her pink cheeks made her look innocent, the trauma of the last seven months erased from her face.
“But you’d be working even harder than ever.”
“Lucy, do you think my manager works half the hours I do?”
Lucy bit her lip and turned back to the mirror. Hurriedly she fished around in her make-up bag for her eyeliner. She looked up at Tom, a cautious smile touching her lips.
“I guess not.”
Tom’s smile widened.
“You guess right. And I guess inviting him over for dinner to discuss the plans for the new office could help me seal the deal too.”
Lucy’s smile disappeared.
“Oh God, is that why he’s coming?”
She turned back at her reflection and leant forwards to paint her eyes, steadying her shaking arm with her free hand. Suddenly she gasped, dropping the pencil and jumping up from her seat.
“Shit! The meringue!”
Tom held up his hands.
“Don’t you worry about it. I’ll go and sort it out.”
Lucy watched him as he strode confidently to the door.
“Tom?”
He stopped abruptly in the doorway and turned to look at her. Her eyes searched his face.
“I...”
She faltered as her eyes met his. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
“Thank you.”
Tom rested his hand on the door frame and looked at the floor.
“No need to thank me. I just hope it’s enough to let you trust me again.”
Lucy looked at him dumbly as she searched for something to say. Tom turned to the hallway.
“Anyway, the meringue.”
Lucy watched him disappear from the doorway. She listened to him clatter down the stairs before she turned back to the dressing table. She sat down slowly and opened a drawer. Carefully she felt around for the tablets she had been saving over the last six weeks. Despite his close monitoring since her last attempt Tom hadn’t noticed her slip one of her pills into her dressing down pocket every night. She rolled the bottle in her hands. The rattle of the fatal dose against the dark glass comforted her. Taking a deep breath, she closed her fingers around the bottle and stood up. She tiptoed over to the en suite bathroom, fumbling with the safety lid. Downstairs the doorbell rang. Lucy froze. She stared at the bottle as she heard Tom open the door. A burst of enthusiastic voices drifted up the stairs. Shaking herself she screwed the lid back on and hurried back to the dresser. She shoved the bottle behind her collection of expensive night creams and serums and sat down. Picking up her eyeliner she studied her reflection. She hardly recognised the drawn face in front of her. The last year had left its mark, yet in her eyes she recognised something of her old self. She swallowed and began to draw a line of kohl around her eyes. Maybe Tom was right. Maybe it was time to start again.

The Anniversary by Shelly Berry

“I’ll have… the bruschetta to start please, then… the seafood pasta thanks.  And a peroni to drink.  What about you dear?”

Oh, I’ll have the fried calamari to start, then the pizza special.  Oh, and some olives to nibble on and a bit of garlic bread.  And a glass of the Shiraz, thanks.”

Melanie smiled at the waiter as she handed back her menu, then turned back to her husband.  Her smile was quickly replaced by a frown.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

“Oh come on, I think I know you well enough to know when I’ve done something wrong!”

“I didn’t say anything!”

“You didn’t have to!  Your face says it all.”

“So after seven years you suddenly object to my face?”

“Oh forget it.  Oh, here come the drinks and the olives.  Thanks!  You want one?”

“No, no.  Wouldn’t want to deprive you of some of your precious food.”

“Oh, so this is what it’s all about.  For God’s sake, it’s our anniversary.  Can you not just let me enjoy myself?”

“Well, you’re the one who keeps complaining that you’ve put on so much weight since having Josh.”

“Yes, okay, I do.  But it seems to bother you a hell of a lot more than it does me.”

“Oh, come on…”

“It’s true!  You find me repulsive, don’t you?”

“Don’t make a scene.  Can’t you keep your voice down?  Oh bloody hell, here come the water works!”

“That’s right, mock me, mock my feelings.  Maybe if you showed me a little bit of affection once in a while I wouldn’t feel the need to eat all the time.  Maybe if you had helped me out a bit when Josh was born and not fucked off with work for so long I wouldn’t have been so lonely.  Maybe then you wouldn’t find me so disgusting!”

Ian shook his head as he held it in his hand, propping it up as though unable to hold it up without the extra support.  His wife dabbed at her smudged eyes discreetly with the corner of her napkin.  Even in the softness of candlelight, it was clear to him she was not the woman he had married. He felt a stab of guilt through his irritation.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?  I’m ridiculous!  If I’m so ridiculous, why did you marry me in the first place?”

“Melanie…”

“Don’t touch me!  And don’t patronise me!  You got me in this state in the first place!”

“What?”

“Well, I didn’t get pregnant all on my own, did I?”

Oh, God!  I seem to recall it was your idea…”

“Yes, but you didn’t object too much, did you?”

“No, I didn’t. But I didn’t know it would send you into such a, into a…”

“A what?  You mean you thought I would be happy playing mummy at home whilst you go off on your important jobs and to the pub and leave me at home with the baby?”

“Well one of us has to work!  What did you expect?”

Melanie looked directly at her husband for the first time that evening.

“Too much, obviously.”

She held his gaze as their starters were placed on the table before them.  Without another word, she picked up her knife and fork and turned her attention to her food.

"Falling" by Rob

My homework this month was to do some more work on my novel, so no new short story from me this month.  Instead here's something from the archives, I wrote it years ago (more years than I'm going to admit here), but hopefully you'll enjoy anyway.

 Falling

The guardsman came forward again and I side-stepped and draped my cape across his rapier, tangling it within the cloak's folds.  He looked startled and with my free hand I drove the basket hilt of my own sword against his temple.  He slipped to the ground unconscious.

So far, so good.  I freed my cape and drew it over my shoulders again, looking around.  I had made it to the top level of the Duke's mansion, undetected except for this one guard on the balcony.  If my information was correct, my ... goal should be just beyond this last door.  Easy.  Still, fortune favours the careful as my grandmother used to say, so I took a moment to check my way out.

Keeping to the shadows, I looked over the edge of the balcony, out across the Duke's ballroom, through the reception area and over to the front doors.  I smiled.  Walking out through those doors had a certain romantic appeal, but I was not quite so confident that I thought the Duke would let me walk out with my prize.  Banners decorated most of the walls, often concealing doors that the Duke's exalted guests need not know about.  I looked down and could just make out the door I had selected for my own exit.  The door was on this side of the ballroom and though I would have to cross part of the ballroom to reach it, I wouldn't be in the open long.  The door lead almost straight out into the alley behind the mansion, and thence to freedom.

I took a last look around the ballroom.  Few guards were in evidence, though I knew the Duke kept a force worthy of a private army.  No, the hall was filled with servants, polishing, shining and cleaning.  Tomorrow evening was the Duke's Grand Ball and everything would need to be just so.  Voices drifted up to me from the ground floor, four storeys below me, including those of some frustrated servants who seemed to be struggling with something heavy.  I wondered what, since those particular servants were out of sight.

I shook my head.  No matter.  On with the task at hand.  I took the key I had stolen and placed it into the lock.  It turned easily and I pushed the door open.

And there she was.  Catriona.  As beautiful as that day I had first seen her.  She was staring out of the window and seemed not to notice me.  Her profile caught the sunlight and her hair took the golden light and made a halo across her brow.

"My lady," I breathed.

She turned, and the smile died on her lips.  "You!"

This wasn't quite the reaction I'd expected.  "I'm here to rescue you," I said.

"What on earth makes you think I need rescuing?" Her voice rang with fury and it twisted me up inside.

"The door was locked," I started, but saw across her shoulder a second door stood open onto a much wider and airier balcony.

A frown gathered above the eyes I had dreamt of for weeks.  "I am to marry the Duke, we keep that door locked to avoid unwanted intruders."  She gave me a pointed look.

"But surely .... we ... I mean ...."  This really was not going as planned.

She gave a mocking smile.  "I enjoyed our time together," she said "but really, what do you have to offer me that the Duke cannot provide three-fold?"

I considered saying 'love' but it was obvious that I had humiliated myself enough.  "Perhaps I had better leave."

"Perhaps you better had."

I turned and left.  I heard her cross the room and lock the door behind me again. 

I leaned against the balcony, head bowed.  "Bugger."  How could I have been so stupid?  In all the time we had been together, she had never said the words, but I'd always assumed.  Assumed that Catriona felt for me as I did for her.  Now, after my rude awakening I could see that her affection was for herself first and money and status next.  I'd never really had a look-in.  "Bugger," I said again.

"You there!  Who are you?"

I looked to the voice and saw four guards at the top of stairs.  If caught, Catriona would be no help to me, and I had a feeling that retreating to her room could be the worst mistake I'd ever make.  Very well.  With a savage glee, I drew my rapier and curled my off hand into my cape.

"Gentlemen," I said "You are just what I was looking for." 

The first of the guards came at me by himself, though two of his companions were not far behind.  The fourth stood at the top of the stairs calling for reinforcements.  I really couldn't care.

The guard stabbed with his rapier and his sword slid across mine as I parried.  The hilts of our swords locked and I pushed him away, careful not to be caught with the others so close.  I feinted to his head, then his leading foot, finally drawing blood as I slipped the point of my sword beneath his guard and along his forearm.  I could see his pain, but he bit it down and carried on.  He was brave but sloppy -- he dominated the balcony meaning his colleagues couldn't get at me, and for the moment it was just him and me.

I worked his blade across and down, then snapped my cape at his eyes.  He tensed, surprised, and I put my rapier through his upper arm.  He dropped his sword and staggered out of the way.  His two companions leapt into the gap.

Against two foes, no matter how sloppy, you have to be a little more careful.    I stepped around one of them as I gathered his sword in a parry.  Pushing my shoulder hard against his chest, I all but rammed the guard into his companion, and the two staggered back getting in each other's ways.  I stamped on a foot and that was enough to finish the guard's balance.  They tumbled, going down in a heap, swords clattering away.

I looked up to see that the fourth guard's reinforcements had arrived, and knew that I was not going to fight them all and win.  My aggression died, and it was with a cooler head I saluted my new foes, turned, and ran.  I didn't have far to run, but it was far enough for me to jump to the balcony wall and launch myself out over the ballroom.

In a flash I realised what the servants had been struggling with earlier.  They had been trying to lower the ballroom's high chandelier so that it could be cleaned.  This was very conscientious of them, but awkward for me since my plan as I'd jumped had involved the chandelier quite heavily.  Instead, the chandelier was already one floor below me and on its way down   I sailed over it and past.  On reflex, I threw up my arm, trying to catch the chandelier as I passed and though my hand fell well short, my cloak caught on one of the candle holders.

My fall came to an abrupt halt, with the clasp from my cloak digging into my throat, strangling me.  Very dignified.  I choked and fought to grasp the chandelier myself, as I could hear fabric ripping.  Suddenly my fall began again, and the chandelier came with me.  Whoever had been holding the ropes had been unprepared for my extra weight and let the ropes slip.

The floor rushed towards me once more, but just as it seemed I would take at least some broken legs from this, the fall slowed and stopped.  The sudden jerk tore my cape loose, but I didn't fall much more than five feet.  I rolled with the landing and back on to my feet.

Amazed that I was still holding my rapier, I turned and moved the blade to salute first the guards four floors above me, and then the servants who had broken my fall.  With all the guards upstairs, I made for the front door after all.  I'd get my exit after all.

I lost myself in the crowded street outside.

Illuminate by Rob

The torchlight flickers and dims.  Its feeble yellow glow doesn't reach the corners of the room -- it's barely enough to illuminate the faces around me; instead their features ebb and flow, shadows eating their expressions.

Sarah hasn't made a sound in twenty minutes, not since Adam.  She just follows us when we move and waits silently when we stop.

Joe isn't much better.  Back at the start he had been ready to fight: collecting things to use as weapons, chasing the noises instead of fleeing them.  But now he sits in that dusty old arm chair, his withered arms clutching the book to his chest.  I can hear his whisper as he rocks back and forth "It can't see us in the light.  It can't see us in the light.  It can't see us in the light."

It's too much.  I hear myself snap "Oh for god's sake shut up!"  It seems harsh to my ears, but no doubt I have my reasons.

The truth is I'm not in much of a better state.  Anger and fear boil acid in my chest, eating me from the inside, I swallow it down and lose a little more of myself.  "I'm sorry," I whisper, but neither the outburst nor the apology touches Joe.

"It can't see us in the light."

I keep quiet, but my hands tighten on the torch until my fingers hurt.  The only torch left now.  I need to be careful, but it won't last forever.  I need to decide.  Leave it with them to keep them safe, and chances are I will be dead before I can find a way out, but if I stay here with it, we are all dead.  Or I can take it myself -- I would move faster without them, and with the torch my odds of escape will increase.  

I can't look at them, Sarah and Joe, I can't bear to see their faces, catch their uncomprehending eyes as I slowly persuade myself to let them die.  I am a bastard.  I wonder what expression I am wearing as my decision seals their fate.

I listen, trying to tune out Joe's cant, the sound of my breathing, the hammering of my heart.  I haven't heard the noises for a while, but I am not reassured.  Adam had said "I think it's gone" and then those hands had closed around his throat in the dark, choking the life from him, timed as some macabre irony.  I have many reasons to hate the thing killing us, but whatever it is I think I hate its twisted sense of humour worst of all.

I take a step, and Sarah takes one with me.  “No, Sarah, stay here with Joe.  Stay here Sarah.  I’m just going for a quick look round.”  I hear my voice, I barely recognise it.  Cold and flat.  Joe pauses his recitation to look at me, his expression unreadable in the half light.  “A quick look round,” I repeat.

The darkness swallows them as I move into the corridor.

Silence.  Silence apart from my breathing, apart from my footsteps, slow and cautious.  I pause, swinging the torch, my view of the world confined to its beam.  I catch glimpses of broken tiles and peeling paint, shabby disrepair and neglect.

I feel a pressure on my shoulders, I know it’s not real, that it is only my imagination, but knowing that doesn’t stop the press of some unknown and imagined gaze.  I take a step forwards along the corridor, driven by that imaginary force, it pushes me again, and I take another step, another, imaginary hands grab for me, I feel their cold fingertips graze my spine, but not find purchase.  

I quicken my pace, a stumbling jog, but those hands remain, always inches behind, grasping and grabbing.  Faster.

The torch beam swings wildly as I run, I see flashes of the world around me, blurring, flickering.  A strobe of glimpses.

And then my flight ends, a tumble of legs and arms, sprawling forward.  Teeth snap shut on my tongue, I taste blood.  I clatter and bounce, sliding down the corridor, grazing and tearing skin.  The torch flies from my grip, its light vanishes, smashed or just lost, it’s irrelevant.  It’s gone.

I lie in the dark, and my mind goes away.

* * *

Fists pummel me, a rain of blows against my chest, my hands are holding someone back, trying to keep them away from me.  I feel hot fevered flesh beneath my fingers.  I don’t know what’s happening.  Is it real, is it imagined, is this it?  I tighten my grip twisting, pushing, trying to control the blows, keep them away from me.

I am standing, I realise.  I should run again.  I should just let go and get away.  But my hands tighten and squeeze again instead.  The fists against my chest are weaker.

What is happening?  I don’t understand.

I want to let go, but I can’t.  Flesh and sinew squeeze in my grip, my thumbs press against what I realise is a throat.  I feel the sob strangled in my grip.

What?

“You cannot see us in the light!” shouts Joe and flicks on a torch.  Where he found it I don’t know, but my body reacts, flinching away from the light.

I look down and see Sarah gasping, trying to breathe as I strangle her.  Her skin is pale and grey, almost papery around my hands, and the effect seems to be spreading, she is withering away as I watch.

I try to speak, I want to ask what is happening, but my voice says “You should have killed me Joe, you should have killed me.”  My voice, yet not.  Not my words, not my sentiment.  “This time the light is not enough.”

“You cannot see us in the light.” Joe shouts again, but it is useless.  Sarah falls lifeless from my grasp, a pale grey husk.

I feel my face set itself in a horrible smile, and I scrabble at the inside of my brain.  The light, why isn’t it working, why isn’t it stopping me?  I am too strong now, so strong I am too weak to stop myself.

“Lights out Joe,” my throat rasps, but inside I’m screaming.