Everything ached.
My back throbbed, and each pulse of my heart sent lightning bolts of pain that ricocheted through my contorted spine. Curled beneath me, my legs had gone numb hours ago, but my arms were the worst. A sickening sensation, almost like static ran in sharp currents through my splayed limps as I braced myself against the wall. Although it was blessedly dark here, trapped between the insulation and warm concrete, I could feel the mocking sun outside. It inched across the sky in torturously slow increments as the days dragged their feet.
I loathed summer. How the moon-sweet nights were so short, how the jealous dawn seemed so eager to banish the comforting stars. The heat clung like noxious fumes to everything, until the world seemed to sweat and moan beneath the humid grip of these agonising months.
On the other side of this wall, the family was still awake. In a few months, they’d be lured into their beds by long hours of darkness; but now they were still active. I could feel their steps reverberate through the wall: the light, fawn-like steps of the two children, and more importantly, the steady gait of their father.
The waiting was agony.
I’d arrived too early. A miscalculation which had led me to simply swap one cage for another. I’d found temporary refuge in an empty warehouse, those who worked there cared little for the things in the dark. Yet it had been barren. I’d roamed the nights with the restlessness of a ghost, every sense pushed to their limits, until at last, I had found it. Immediately, the urge had been almost overwhelming, a siren call of home to the exhausted wanderer. Eagerness had made me careless, and pulled me from the dark too early. Now I found myself stuck maddeningly close to what I craved, but unable to move. Another bolt of pain tore through my long spine and echoed through my hunched shoulders. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to remain still. I closed my eyes and waited for the day to end.
At last, the shadows had grown, unfurled into ribbons of black ink over the house. Strands of darkness slid into the hair-thin cracks of my hiding space, sweet encouragement that it was safe to emerge. No movement came from inside the house. I eased myself through the wall until my numb feet rested on a plush carpet—at last, I was inside. Stretching out my thin limbs, I hissed at the unpleasant sensation of muscles and tendons quivering back to life beneath my skin. In part to distract myself, I staggered ungainly to the large bay windows which looked out onto the street. I turned my head, the action accompanied by a loud crack as my neck realigned. Outside, I saw the other houses had similarly fallen silent. Only one, three buildings down, had light spilling from an upstairs window. Curiosity flickered to life, and for a moment, I contemplated slipping out into the night. I’d avoid the golden pools of dripping streetlamp light, and instead investigate the one bright window which seemed to glow with the promise of something new.
No, it would have to wait. Curiosity could be satiated another time, now… now I needed to focus on more pressing desires.
The pain in my body had finally subsided, and my muscles were warm and ready. On silent feet, I moved through the rooms and my eyes devoured every detail. Every inch of this space seemed littered with memorabilia of the family who inhabited this space. Casually draped blankets whispered of cold mornings curled on the sofa, while a neglected mug of forgotten tea still held a memory of warmth. Of life. I paused when I found a toy, a small doll with bright yellow hair which sat on one of the sofa cushions, one plastic arm outstretched towards me. I moved further, feet now on the cold tiles of a kitchen. A picture coloured by a child’s excited hand was stuck to the fridge, yet the blobs of colour were meaningless to me. I returned to the warm room, and a glint caught my attention. A row of photographs lined a small shelf—moments captured forever. Faces frozen in perpetual grins, hands permanently linked. I raised one hand to clumsily brush over the cool glass and a different kind of ache writhed in my chest. It was a chasm, a yawning abyssal hunger.
My harsh breath fogged the glass and obscured the faces which grinned up from the photos. Envy was a blade, twisting somewhere deep inside me as the warm atmosphere of this room, of the lives who filled it, pressed against me. Smothering. I was so close that my skin twitched and spasmed on my bones. Unable to bear it, I turned from the photos and glided up the carpeted stairs. My attention narrowed to the sound of several beating hearts. A rhythmic, calming cadence which pulled me along, urged me in the right direction.
At last, I hovered outside the door and relished the excitement which flowed through my veins, such a contrast to the slow beat just behind the door. It had been left open, barely a crack, but it was wide enough for me. I slid through until I stood in the bedroom. Light from the streetlamps mocked me through the window, but the darkness which filled the corners of the room was enough to keep the intruding light at bay. I made my way to the bed. There would be time to explore this room, to see what lay within each drawer, upon every shelf—but not now. I let my limbs be guided by the slumbering pulse until one hand touched the soft edge of the bedcovers. The man was deeply asleep, his eyelids shifting as he dreamed. A fresh wave of excitement, of anticipation broke over me like a wave, but I held myself still.
When I was sure I was in control again, I let my fingers brush over his throat. The skin was fragile, and here I keenly felt his pulse beat against my damp flesh. His eyes opened, as I let one limb brush over his mouth. There was confusion in his gaze, a question of whether he was still dreaming, and then there was the fear. His mouth opened, but I had already taken his voice. A slight whistle of air escaped from his lips as one of his hands rose to his throat. His body lurched as he pushed himself back, sitting up against the headboard. The whites of his eyes gleamed around the dilated pupils as he stared. Within his warm chest, the tempo of his heart had quickened, no longer a lullaby but a frenetic, raucous beat. He tried to move away, but my hand now firmly gripped his neck, there was nowhere for him to go. His terror was electric, and I felt the exhilaration in my blood as I felt him struggle; like a bird held in a hand, so fragile in fear. His desperate lips were wide open and I could feel the air from his silenced screams warm my hand. I shivered before I moved on top of the bed. I held his face between my hands, he clawed ineffectively at my form. To him, it would feel as if he were trying to clutch at fog, and I barely felt his attempts to fight back.
Despite his struggles, my fingers were now poised at the soft skin behind his jaw and around his ears. The man went limp, yet as he started to feel the pain he convulsed violently. His head still in my grip, I could see the pleading in his eyes, the tears which slipped down his face. Bedcovers were kicked to the floor as he struggled, fruitlessly trying to escape the pain that was only increasing with every passing second. If I had a voice, I’d tell him to be still, to simply let go.
At last, I felt it give. First, only a little, the barest hint of weakening, and then all at once it practically fell away from the sinew and bone. With absolute tenderness, I lifted it free from the gore and gently turned it over in my hands. Joy bubbled up within me, a breathless sort of wonder. I'd left the envy downstairs, now there was only undiluted happiness. I raised it and savoured the warmth I felt, the heat which spilt free and ran down my arms like silk. It only grew more intense as I closed the distance and brought it closer until I was bathed in life.
I opened my new eyes for the first time. My hand rose of its own accord and my fingertips stroked the new, flushed skin now effortlessly moulding to my once smooth head. I had a mouth, I could smile—I was smiling! My fingertips explored my new face, at the plush lips which now were curled upwards like a crescent moon, at the flatter teeth growing from my gums. I let them explore the soft curve of my cheek, of my new nose. A sound escaped me, and I started slightly before I understood—it was a laugh. My curious fingers trailed upwards, and they grazed soft eyelashes which framed more simple eyes. I let myself slip to the floor, my knees buckling under the weight of the moment. The skin from the new face coaxed the rest of my body into its new shape. Fresh skin emerged from beneath my former flesh, and joints reformed into a far more human shape- it was as if each cell was transforming into something wonderful. I closed my new eyes and savoured the love that coursed through me, the joy and pure, undiluted euphoria. Tears formed behind my eyelids and slipped down the—my—unblemished cheeks before they dripped like rain onto the carpet beneath me.
Once again, I had a face.
“Afternoon Adam! It’s going to be a scorcher today, isn’t it?” My neighbour’s cheerful voice boomed over the small hedge wall dividing our respective gardens.
I paused from where I was watering the plants, and raised my head to meet his open smile,
“Sure is! You’ll have to come over later,” I replied, still feeling a thrill when I heard my new voice, “the girls will love to see you.”
He waved and promised to bring a few good steaks for a BBQ before he stepped out from view. I turned away and gazed around my garden where his… where my two daughters played by the colourful beds of peonies.
“Would you two like an ice cream?” I asked,
They cheered, and I couldn’t resist a broad grin. I walked back towards the house but paused when I stepped into a golden patch of late afternoon sunlight. I tilted my head back and let the warmth soak into me. Perhaps summer wasn’t so bad after all.
Riley is an English writer, and while she was born in London, she has lived all along the southern coast of the UK. She has been published in both the independent arts magazine, Antler Velvet as well as the publication, The Yard Lab. She is currently studying creative writing at the degree level as a mature student, after a gap year spent working as a journalist overseas. Riley enjoys writing both poetry and prose, with the latter often containing elements of the gothic and disturbing.