Shatter

TV.

Afterwards the dishes are cleared away. Somebody is coming. I draw back sharply into the shadows, stepping into a wardrobe, pulling clothes around me. I breathe in the bitch’s scent, her stale perfume and sweat.

As a child I used to love playing hide and seek with my brother; the ball-tightening, bladder-clenching sense of excitement, the fear of discovery. Sometimes I’d curl up and try not to breathe, but my brother always found me. He said he could hear me because I was trying too hard not to make a sound.

A shadow passes the door. I see the bitch’s reflection in the tilted mirror. She goes to the toilet. Her skirt is pulled up, her tights rolled down. Her thighs are pale as candle wax. She stands and flushes, turning to face the mirror, pivoting forward over the sink to examine her face, pulling at the skin around her eyes. She talks to herself. I can’t hear what she says. Her tights are tossed aside. She raises her arms and a nightdress slides over her shoulders and the hem drops to her knees.

Her daughter has gone to her room. I hear her schoolbag tossed in a corner and the sound of the shower. Later she comes to say goodnight. Air kisses. Tousled hair. Sweet dreams.

I’m alone with the bitch. There is no man of the house. He has been evicted, cast out, passed over, disenfranchised; the king is dead, long live the queen!

She has turned on the TV and watches from her bed, flicking through the channels, a bright square in her eyes. She isn’t really watching. She picks up a book instead. Does she feel me here? Is there a shiver of apprehension or a sense of disquiet, like a ghost leaving footprints on her grave?

I am the voice she’s going to hear when she dies. My words. I am going to ask her if she’s frightened. I am going to unlock her mind. I am going to stop her heart. I am going to beat her to floor and feed on her bloody mouth.

When?

Soon.