Rooms (To the memory of my mother)
You walked into another room
a dark and distant place,
to begin a new beginning
with dignity and grace.
A room with flickering shadows
void of pain and lies.
A room without a doorway,
until we close our eyes.
I wonder could you have ever known
that before you turned the key,
the room you left behind you holds
a beating memory
Night Mare
I have never really liked the night, but it has always fascinated me, the way it blanks everything out, like a gigantic marker pen, and banishes people to spaces behind locked doors. It came, and waved itself over my head, like a magician’s cape. After the blink of a day, there I was, sitting in an armchair, looking out into the street. There, amidst the sudden gloom, the lamps spilled white circles onto the path. In between the pools were oak trees, standing as still as stone deities, with their arms outstretched poised to catch the falling sky.
In some ways, it was like existing in a parallel universe. I had been taken away from the world I knew, and taken to one where I was nothing more than an observer, in place where there was nothing to observe, a voyeur of nothingness.
I only knew, I wished that the day could be like that, peaceful and void of people. I could have believed I was alone on the planet, perhaps I was. No car sounds, no music, no loud TVs from open windows, not even a breeze to blow the leaves along the ground. A moment frozen in time, need I say more?
Unfortunately, what is left by black the imagination fills with colours. On nights like this, vampires were born, demons lurk in the shadows, and bogeymen seek out children.
Then, just as my mind had wandered farther than I wanted it to, I became aware of footsteps pounding fast in the distance. As they got nearer, they left the street and entered my head in the form of loud echoes.
Someone was in a hurry. It had gone past three in the morning. What a dirty stop-out. Someone’s stayed out too late to get a taxi, and is going to get home to a red-faced baby-sitter.
My next thought, was to investigate. I got up from my warm cushion and pushed my face through the open curtains. I couldn’t see the owner of the footsteps, but they had at least stopped. Perhaps they had found their destination. Then, just as I had sat back down, they began again, and this time, I could hear loud panting, and underneath that, distress, a teary whimper.
I got up again, but again, could see nothing. I had begun to wonder if my disturbed mind was playing tricks on me.
The next sound sent my heart into my throat where it became momentarily lodged, a very loud, sudden and impatient hammering on my front door.
Now, there was a thing. I have always thought of myself as a humanitarian, a helping hand, a do-gooder. Yet for some reason I hesitated.
I heard my letter-box squeak as it was lifted, and a woman’s voice in the hall.
‘Please! You’ve got to help me!’
‘What’s wrong?’ I call back, ‘are you in trouble?’ What a stupid question.
‘He’s got a knife and he’s going to kill me!’
‘Who is going to kill you?’
‘Let me in!’ Bang-bang-bang-bang!
I looked at my door, so many locks. I am so security conscious. I was burgled a year ago and went over-the-top a bit.
Nevertheless, as quickly as I could, I undid them all one by one, the latches, the locks, the chains, eight in all. With an embarrassing grunt I dragged the stubborn lump of wood towards my chest. I had help. The woman was pushing from the other side.
In a minute she was behind me, where she was safe. I slammed the door shut again and secured us the best I could.
‘It’s OK,’ I said, trying to sound like a comic book hero, flicking my cape over my shoulder, ‘you’re safe now. He can’t get to you. We’ll call the police,’ I turned around, ‘and…’
I turned to face her and what my fearful eyes met froze solid. I couldn’t believe that fate could be such a cruel mistress. There was a woman standing in my hallway holding a carving knife above her head. Her wide, bloodshot eyes and jagged mouth, didn’t belong to the person I’d allowed over the threshold. In the place of the distressed damsel was an escaped psychopath.
And then as I was just about to ask her why, she plunged a dagger deep into my chest, and that is the point where I awoke.
That’s how it has been for some time, since it was what I did to my wife, when she had the affair.