Photo credit: fieryn from morguefile.com
She’s drinking gin and tonic, even though it’s not a girl drink. The blinds are closed, but splashes of red and blue still bleed through. A low hum of glass-bell silence in the house points an accusing finger towards the hall, up the stairs and to the bath. Signs, written in psychic hues of purple. Cryptic warnings. Don’t Go Upstairs. Her hand shakes, tinkling the ice in her drink. It hasn’t been said, but she’s getting talked to. She doesn’t want to get talked to.
Her fingers fidget for a cigarette. This ancient house usually feels warm, but the front door stands wide open, like a mouth, falling into a dark throat of frozen midnight. It’s always midnight when bad things happen, but maybe this one doesn’t count because she took a nap. Fatigue had etched away at her consciousness; the book she’d been reading, fell to the floor, where the cat could sniff and tear at the pages. Sleep is a thief. The night is its witness.
Dirty snow is left to perish on the Berber carpet.
If it happened while she was asleep, that makes it a dream. It feels like one. She takes another sip, and raises the glass to look at it. It looks like water but smells like hell, and that matches her mood.
A uniformed man stands over her. Not looking at her, but keeping watch as others like him file in and out of the door. They bring tools and bags. Soon, it’ll be time to move from the sofa. She licks her lips, numb from the alcohol and stained with nicotine. She’d ran out of cigarettes an hour ago.
