It comes in at night
Insinuates itself into the room smoke-like
Seeping through cracks and gaps
When I notice its presence
It’s already too late
And the fumes turn into
The acrid smell of sweat
As it rests heavy on top of me
Spreads inside me covering my mouth
Turning my pleas into muffled whimpers.
…
My neck creaks from the strong headlock
And my teeth grind from
The memory of its salacious whispers
Its menacing murmurs
Threats of car accidents
And unrecognisable bodies
Pulled out of carbonised tin cans
Unfortunate falls and incurable diseases
Phone calls announcing the unannouncable
Wrong turns into dark roads.
…
I try to wrestle it away from the children
And cling at its ethereal dress
Claw at its immateriality
As it slowly climbs up the stairs
Flashing that bright blade
Before it slits little throats
Leaving me choosing
Impossibly small coffins
Over and over again
As dawn rises and
The shadows of my insanity
Shorten and slowly disappear.
THE END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
B. F. Jones is French and has been living in the UK since 2002.
She has flash fiction and poetry published in various online UK and US literary magazines: The Cabinet of Heed, Daily Drunk, Rejection Lit, Spelk, Storgy, Versification, Ellipsis and Idle Ink.
Twitter handle: @Fijo_Frenchie