I used to live in that tree. Nights were the worst time. That light shining down. The cold. Trying to get sleep, scared stiff of falling. Owls. Foxes. Cats. The police, well-meaning neighbours. ‘Til I was a fixture.
I remember one night, early on. Mr Smith. 52. Cigarette break after one of his dreams. Haunted stare right through me as he took long drags.
“I think it’s you,” he said, “In my dreams. Waiting, knives concealed.”
“Nah, guv, not me.” I said, opening my coat to show I had nothing there.
He smiled. Went back in. Never saw him again.
I remember one night, early on. Mr Smith. 52. Cigarette break after one of his dreams. Haunted stare right through me as he took long drags.
“I think it’s you,” he said, “In my dreams. Waiting, knives concealed.”
“Nah, guv, not me.” I said, opening my coat to show I had nothing there.
He smiled. Went back in. Never saw him again.
Written for Friday Fictioneers from the following picture prompt:
PHOTO PROMPT © Ronda Del Boccio
Glad he never saw him again.
ReplyDeleteThat's a great atmosphere and description, a feeling of being hunted.
ReplyDeleteLeft me feeling creepy. if it wasn't him, who? Very well done!
ReplyDeleteGreat atmosphere.
ReplyDelete