Rude Awakening

I woke from hazy dreams of foreign travel, lost luggage and strange hotel rooms, with the absolute certainly something was wrong. Even to newly opened eyes the darkness was dense; I stared at the rectangle of the uncurtained window, barely lighting the room. My throat was parched.

I lay still, wondering what woke me, but it was quiet, apart from the distant rattle of a truck. It must have been something from the dream, I decided, something that my waking mind had failed to retain, but my nerves refused to settle. I tried to get back to sleep, but my dry mouth nagged me. After trying three different positions, I gave up and decided to go for a glass of water. You’d have thought you’d had enough already, I thought vaguely.

I got to unsteady feet and realised that I was still dressed; my shirt fell unstuck from my skin only reluctantly. I fumbled vainly for the light switch until it occurred to me that it might not be a brilliant idea to blind myself: surely I could see shapes enough to get around my own house. I found the doorknob, opened the door and shuffled along the landing, one hand against the wall, to the bathroom: at the top of the stairs, just like in all the houses around here. Now I was vertical I realised I needed to use the toilet too—

What was that? A bang from downstairs, no dream. I stood still, breath held, and listened. A scraping – something being dragged across the floor perhaps – a burglar? At best, some teens up to no good.

Bathroom forgotten, I stumbled across to the top of the stairs and took fierce hold of the banister. I cursed myself silently for not locking the door. Not that most people round here did – this wasn’t the city. I crept down the stairs, still in the dark, figuring it would give me home advantage. Steps creaked alarmingly under me more than I’d ever noticed before. I held still again at the bottom, anxious the thief might have heard, but no one came. Then I caught someone speaking – were there two of them?

I suppose if I had any sense I’d have reconsidered my lone assault then, but having sense is not something I’m often accused of. The thought of two of them prowling about my house galled me – the voice was coming from the back of the house, so that was the way I hurried. For my efforts my knee collided with a hard edge; the chair clattered against the wooden floor.

That they must have heard. I seized the displaced chair as the obvious weapon to hand, hefted it aloft; but still no one came. So I limped onwards, chair before me. Light could be seen under the kitchen door, shadows playing across it. Making off out the back door with the microwave, perhaps – no time to waste.

In one move I yanked the door open, snatched the chair and swung it upwards into the kitchen. It clanged against the descending frying pan. Bob withdrew the pan and took a step back toward his wife.

‘What the hell are you doing in my house?’ we said.