I've been really busy and not even read the comments on my IWSG post yet. I will, I promise, but not for a couple of days... sorry.
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The wonderful Kyra Lennon is organising an anthology with all proceeds going towards Cats Protection (Teignbridge and Totnes branch), and here is my entry... I, of course, give permission to use my submission in the anthology.
Click here for the list of other entries. (I'm not on the list at the moment, but I will be soon, I think!)
THE WATCHING
I
hear the sirens, far off, coming closer. I bury my head in my heads, covering
my ears so I can’t hear them anymore. It doesn’t work; they filter in, echoing
around the darkness, filling the room.
I
stand, and switch on my old record player. I take the only album I own – Ziggy
Stardust – and Five Years blasts out as loud as I dare to disguise the wailing
sirens. Straight away, there’s a banging on the wall from my neighbour, so I
turn it a little louder, just so she knows I heard her.
When
I was a child, my father would sit me on his lap and we’d listen to the sirens
as they fought through thick rush-hour traffic, his strong arms protecting me
from them. I hated the idea of vehicles specially designed to manoeuvre dying
people from one place to another.
I
don’t think about my father much. When he died – taken away in an ambulance,
with a promise he’d be home again soon – everyone was so upset, and I didn’t
want to make Mum cry any more than she already was, so I hid in my bedroom and
pretended he was always in another room. He became my secret, my fairy tale.
My
mother tried to help me, tried to protect me like he’d done, but her arms
weren’t as strong, weren’t as safe. And she had to send me here. “I can’t look
after you anymore, I’m sorry.”
“Dad
wouldn’t send me away,” I cried.
She
hugged me. “Your dad was a very special person, I’ll never be able to take care
of you the way he did. You need more help than I can give you.”
I
don’t like that memory.
I
hold my breath until it goes away.
I
focus on the music, because I feel like a star man. I am a star man.
I
close my eyes and float away.
A
cat jumps from somewhere and lands on my window ledge. I gasp, startled. My heart
pounds against my chest; I feel my pulse beating against my forehead.
Just
a cat. How can a cat hurt me? I laugh
with tentative relief.
But,
even so, I hold my hands out in front of me, taking the stance of a kick boxer
before the bout starts, alert and determined. Sssh, says a soothing voice in my head that could belong to me, or
to my mother, or even to my father. Too many people are talking all at once,
and I can’t concentrate.
This
cat isn’t mine. I don’t know where it came from; he must be a stray. He’s
brave: I live on the second floor, and there’s nothing below but a long fast
drop onto grey concrete slabs. The cat looks at me, solid and unflinching; his
eyes are green, cold, narrow.
I
don’t turn away. There’s something haunting, almost irresistible about his
eyes. I move my head to the side, but my gaze remains fixed on him. I want to
look away, but the cat stares and I stare. His face changes, taking human form just
for a second. I call out in shock. I know that face; the face of the devil. I feel
myself being lifted up, floating, being coerced. He thinks I won’t fight, that
I’ll give up easily.
The
cat looks away, bored, just a cat; no longer possessed. And I’m still here,
alive. I shiver and run my hands through my hair, down my ice-cold face, across
my breasts, down my hips and thighs, just to make sure. Yes, I’m still here.
Never
use a cat to do the Devil’s work, I think with a wry smile. Then I restrain
myself. It was close this time. And he’ll be back, because he always comes
back.
The
cat arches his back and turns himself around on the narrow ledge; he stretches
and lies down. He yawns, holding a paw out, indulgently examining himself. He
appears to smile, to be satisfied with himself, then settles down and curls
into himself. Just a cat.
I
look beyond him, out across the orange glow of the city. They’re all out there,
lurking under the cover of the darkness, sucking life from one person at a
time. Those sirens, that’s how they travel. No one’s safe; I’m at home, my door
and window are locked, bolted, and yet I’m not safe. They watch, they listen,
they pounce when you least expect it.
My
father lied. He said he’d always be here. But he isn’t. He hasn’t been here for
a very long time. He’s a whisper in my peripheral vision, a speck of dust
that’s blinked away.
He
said he’d protect me from all the bad things; but he went away.
The
sirens are getting closer; they are
getting closer. I can see the blue lights twisting and turning in the shapes of
roads that are there in the daytime. I back into the corner farthest from the
window. My hands grasp the air. Who’s
there? What do you want?
There’s
no one here. I laugh anxiously. It’s all in my head. Dad told me that. He said
my head played tricks on me. He said when the tricks started I just had to
listen to his voice, and everything would be okay again.
I
inspect my reflection in the window, a wobbly image that looks nothing like me.
I reach out with faltering fingers and touch the fingers reaching out from the
glass. I press my palms flat and feel the chill from outside. The glass is
distorted. There are two of me, overlapping. How do you do, you do, I ask my selves?
They reply in unison as though they’re one person.
It’s
too hot; a trail of sweat runs down my back, following my spine like a warped,
bony finger.
The
cat jumps to its feet on the ledge. I spring back; I’d forgotten he was there.
I watch him stretch. I stare right at him until he looks away. It’s a game. He
glances back, winking sardonically, and looks past me, over my shoulder into
the room. He opens his mouth, like he’s laughing at me. He’s going to enjoy it
when this is over. He’ll be laughing louder than anyone else. He’s coming to get me.
I
shiver but I’m not cold. I wrap my arms around my body, squeezing. My hands are
cold against my hot chest, my hot stomach. I close my eyes to focus on the
sound of my father’s voice; but I can’t hear him. He has to be here, doesn’t
he? He said he’d always be here.
An
ambulance stops outside, blue lights flash into my room. There’s a lot of commotion
and noise suddenly. People running, doors opening and shutting at the end of
corridors.
“In
here, she’s in here. We found her about ten minutes ago. We’ve been giving CPR…”
The voices muffle and quieten until I can’t hear them anymore.
I
slump to the floor, leaning against the wall, hugging my legs close to my
chest. They went into Jennifer’s room. She’s new. She doesn’t talk to anyone,
not even at mealtimes when we go and eat together downstairs. She doesn’t eat
in front of people; she hides food in her pocket to eat later. She carries a
pink teddy everywhere she goes.
Jennifer’s
door opens and the voices return, shouting out lots of medical stuff that I
don’t understand. The wheels of the stretcher squeal on the lino, and footsteps
run beside it. They emerge downstairs and Jennifer gets swallowed up into the
ambulance. I kneel at the window and peer over the ledge; then walk backwards.
It’s wrong, staring like that.
One
day, it’ll be me. My overdose, my limp body being wheeled away.
I
jolt forward, as if pushed. I jump around. Who’s
there? I watch the shadows. He comes in the shadows, hiding, waiting for
the precise moment. Then he strikes before you even have time to react. He’s
listening. He hears my thoughts. He’s here. I can feel his ice-cold hand
sliding around my waist, pulling me towards him. I can’t move.
He’s
gone again. As condescendingly and calmly as a cat, he leaps in and out of
bodies, possessing and deserting at will.
The
light in the middle of the ceiling is suddenly too intense. I hold my hand up
to shield my eyes from the piercing light. I stumble backwards, but catch
myself in time. If I move too close to the door, I’ll be vulnerable; he’ll
seize me, swoop down to steal my soul from within me.
The
opening chords of Rock ‘N’ Roll Suicide gently
ebb into the room. I focus on David Bowie’s voice in lieu of Dad’s. Will it
work the same way? If I listen to Bowie will the bad things stop?
My
head aches. I close my eyes, hazy and uncertain, dreamlike. If this is a dream, I can be anyone I like,
can’t I? I can walk through walls, or fly high above the city. Or I can make
myself small and invisible. I can creep through people’s legs while they stand
in bus queues. I can watch them like they watch me.
The
moon is high in the sky tonight, but it’s frowning; I always thought the moon
smiled. It’s just a lump of rock in the
sky, says someone in the corner, using my father’s voice. But he wouldn’t
say that, of course. He’d say, of course
the man in the moon is real, just like Father Christmas, and I’d believe
him.
It
drifts across the sky, still scowling, and shines into my room, making it
shimmer. The ghost-grey radiance swirls around me. I idly gaze up at the
ceiling, at the cracks that are now highlighted. Some are fine lines; others
are almost holes that cast deeper, snaking shadows.
That’s
it! That’s how he’s getting in!
I’ve
always wondered; now I know. That’s how he watches me. That’s how he knows so
much about me. Neither my father’s voice nor David Bowie can protect me from this
insidious wickedness. I’ll never escape because he’s right here, on top of me.
And I’ll always know it.
I’m here. Take me,
that’s what you want, isn’t it? What choice do I have?
I
stand in the middle of the room, my arms stretched out, spinning on the spot. I
wait, but nothing happens. He doesn’t want me to give in, to surrender; he
wants to snatch me, to fight for me. To prove his dominance over me. He’s
losing his chance. I won’t offer myself again, and I won’t be taken easily.
Why
doesn’t he answer? I know he’s here. I can feel him, I can smell him, taste
him. I want to reach out and bury myself within him. I want to give him
everything I have. I’m tired now; I want to give in, and then I can sleep. All
I want to do is sleep.
It’s a trick!
Who said that?
I stand frozen, my eyes shifting around the room quickly as I try to catch him.
There’s
no one here. No one except the cat, of course. He’s standing proud, staring in,
his eyes glinting in the light.
I
want to hide, escape. He watches me closely, with a slow smile. He knows what
I’m thinking; he knows everything.
“Please
go away. Please leave me alone.”
I
hear them laughing. I swing around, hoping to catch him in the corner of my
eye. He’s too quick. They’re mocking; their voices are full of hatred and
scorn. I cover my ears. They won’t go away. They laugh. I look at the cat; he’s
laughing too.
I
hear breathing, someone creeping up behind me. I spin around, with a yell. No
one. Too quick. Like a cat. I turn the other way. No one; no thing. I gradually
crouch down to make myself as tiny as possible. I jump with a loud whooping
noise, to frighten him. Even though I know it’s pointless.
Gradually,
as though drifting on a still river, I am aware of Dad’s aftershave, a warmth
returning to the room. I feel his hand pressing on my shoulder. He’s standing
beside me; the two of us together, fighting the bad thing.
The
cat observes with displeasure. He sees my father beside me. I watch the cat
shift his gaze between the two of us, sitting like a porcelain figurine. I
don’t move, don’t try to run. I’m strong now; my father has given me this
strength, his strength. And the cat
doesn’t know what to do. He expected it to be easy this time. He thought my
defences were finally worn down. He thought he’d win.
It’s
my turn to smile, my turn to laugh. The cat hisses and jumps away. I expect to
see my father smiling at me, but the warmth and fragrance drifts away, and I’m
alone again. But I don’t have to hide anymore. I can fight back; and my father
will always be there.
About the Author:
Annalisa Crawford lives in Cornwall UK, with a good supply
of moorland and beaches to keep her inspired. She lives with her husband, two
sons, a dog and a cat. Crawford writes dark contemporary, character-driven
stories. She has been winning competitions and publishing short stories in
small press journals for many years, Cat and The Dreamer in 2012.
