Mauled.

[crows]

The night is hungry. I walked home from a late night foray into crisp air, hot cup in hand, wet breath spooling in my scarf, and avoided the bodies on the street. Arm-waving boys shouting their bravados in a tight group, cold and skinny in their black t-shirts. Men with beards and books they carry with suspiciously religious weight, shaking hands, exchanging hugs outside closed storefronts. The city sleepily preparing itself for binging weekend nights.

I hurried home, arrived breathless. I've been more and more jumpy since, and retreated into almost total darkness. Because I don't want there to be a light in my window. Because I don't want anyone to see my shadow moving. Maybe even the light of my netbook screen is too much, facing the wall above my bed, innermost to the house at large. I'm fighting the urge to hold my breath every time someone's conversation passes on the sidwewalk.

The cats are on alert, too, perked ears and watchful eyes more than usual, as though they are waiting. I'm waiting, too.

Comments

[ghosthound]

Waiting is a skill. Breathless patience is as much strain on the human as a martial artist's prowess is on the body. It's good that you understand it. It makes you better.