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Creak
She was a light sleeper, like the tip-toes of a ballerina. In the early morning, just before the first rays of sunlight sliced across the continent, her mind would gently start the process of surfacing from the fluids of dream world. She was used to jolting awake, ever so mildly, as the sound of those knocks and creaks of the darktime, but this night, it was something far more frightening that jerked her from slumber.
A small, mouse-like squeal of her door, tattooed with posters of sparkling vampires and pop stars, and the slightest inch of dim light bombarded her brain, and her thin eyelids flew open. She glanced through out the room. The noise, a continuous wheeze, in-out-in-out, and the occasional whistle of a stuffed nose. Her father? Coming to surprise her? But if it was he, the shadow did not reveal himself. She eyed the doorway, straining to make out any outline, but the silhouette was so slight, she could not tell if it was simply her mind visualizing her suspicions.
As five minutes ticked by, she began to feel the pressure of the emptiness in the room. So much unknown, a cloak of danger hovering above her. She began to formulate a theory; a theory that explained the rustling by her feet; a theory to why faint traces of onions and Old Spice were beginning to waft up her nose, like a curious invader. A theory to who was standing outside her door.
She imagined truly horrifying intentions. Did he have a razor sharp-- or rather, a dull and painful--axe clutched in his hands? Were they already caked in dried, sticky blood from his last victim? She pictured his front tooth missing. A gaping, haunting hole like that of an empty grave. Dagger whiskers. A leering grin, so lopsided that if it could walk, it would limp.
As his breathing grew louder, the girl’s did, as well. The chicken fettuccini from hours before seemed to be bouncing in her trampoline stomach. Her insides raged, and the taste of cool, metallic pennies tickled the back of her throat. Hands clenched, covered in cold sweat. The bathroom, solace, only a few feet away, but behind her obstruction in the door. If she made any move, showed any sign of being awake, she was sure the intruder would pounce. The door would slam open, drumming the wall. His face and identity would be revealed.
She could feel the burning stare from the person. She wanted to cower and huddle beneath her layers of soft, heavenly blankets. She knew it would do no good, but not seeing him would mean she could imagine him away. She knew it was nonsense, but her covers seemed to be a guardian angel, if only she could throw them over her face with out alerting the stranger. Why?
Why did this someone have to pick this house, this bedroom? Why not bring upon this endless torture to some other human being? Why turn her nightmares into reality? Why? She wanted to bellow it out, accuse him of horrendous deeds. Make him sorry for ever trying to fracture a young girl’s mental strength.
It was taking too long. If someone was really there, he would have identified himself and his intentions by now. Nobody’s there, she told herself. It’s just midnight hallucinations. Nothing. Don’t you think an intruder would have awakened your dog? She asked herself. It just a big cloud of nonsense. Logically, why would somebody randomly break into a small, suburban house that was no different from the ones surrounding it, just to stare at a girl?
However, this girl did not truly capture this prowler’s objective.
The door opened, and light from the hall window flooded her room, illuminating his shadow.
She opened her mouth and screamed before the lunge.
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so, I posted this awhile ago on TCO, if any of you remember it, but it was inspired by Edgar Allen Poe's A Tell Tale Heart, which actually is told in the point of view from the intruder. I tried to imagine how, if instead of and old man in the 1800's, a girl around our age would feel if this event occurred.
