The door creaks as I climb out of the blue, clapped-out Morris Minor van.
I turn anxiously towards my house. Light from the kitchen streams out into the night, but I don’t see any movement inside. My smashed wrist-watch reads quarter past one. I reach back into the passenger seat and retrieve my ruck-sack. In the silhouette of moonlight Arthur nods at me.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper, ‘I’ll text you.’
I close the door as quietly as I can and wrap the scarf he’s lent me loosely around my neck.
AKM had instructed me at his house to “hide the bruises from the police.”
Sure enough, one solitary officer is standing guard around the Clover residence; he walks up to me.
‘Shelly Clover?’ He asks sternly before peering through the window at my chaperone. Mr McFadden pulls an old baseball cap further down his lacerated brow and squints at the officer.
‘My friend gave me a lift home. I texted my whereabouts to my mum.’
I try to distract the officer. I don’t want him to see the gash on Arthur’s face.
‘And, this is Mr McFadden?’ the young constable asks.
‘Yes it is; a close family friend.’
‘It’s a bit late, don’t you think?’ The officer looks bothered.
‘He’s like an Uncle. You wouldn’t understand. Any sign of my brother?’
The policeman shakes his head; his full attention on me now.
‘Ms Clover, I’m assigned to look after you, but you need to play ball with us too.’
‘I think I’ll be fine.’
The constable’s eyes widen: ‘I believe that this isn’t the first time we’ve had to protect your family.’
He’s right. I’m putting my foot in it; time to shut up.
‘Erm, you’re right. I’m sorry. W-would you mind helping me with my bike?’
The Policeman stops eyeing Arthur suspiciously and looks over at the back of the Morris Minor.
He sighs and retrieves the bike.
Arthur shouts a goodbye and pulls away quickly, preventing any more questions, as the officer stands there with his mouth open.
He shakes his head as we walk towards my front door.
Satisfied that we have made it, I fire a hasty ‘thank you’ as I move quickly through the front door, discarding the bike outside. Everything is quiet and I walk straight upstairs. Nothing stirs and I am grateful that Mother has left my bedroom light on for Buddy. I place the bag down on the bed and unzip quietly, taking out the bell first.
‘Shhh, no noise now,’ I place the bell on my navy pillow.
I leave the book next to it before creeping over to check on Buddy. I listen for a few moments to my brother breathing peaceably before bending over and giving him a good night kiss on the back of his head. I quickly change into sleep shorts and a sleep shirt. No wash tonight. Shower in the morning if I can fit one in.
Time for answers.
I take the sleeping device Arthur gave me and set the dial to four and the clock hands to seven am. It seems pretty straight-forward and easy enough to understand. Typically, it has Arthur’s trademark patent of ‘AKM’ on the front. I place the mat that accompanies it inside my pillow-case again; all set in accordance with the nutty professor’s wishes. My head just has to hit the pillow and it will regulate my brain waves once I fall asleep.
I then hop onto my bed and open the book searching through the contents page for the section on nursery rhymes.
I rub my neck gingerly – so painful.
I then hold the book open at the relevant pages, not sure where to begin.
‘Please don’t scare me. Don’t jump out on me, or wake-up Buddy. Please don’t ring the bell.’
I swallow hard; my throat is very sore. The book stays motionless in my hands.
I stare at it blankly.
‘I was talking with a Whisper. He says we are all in danger and that I needed to ask you for help.’
I wait.
Nothing.
‘I know you’re a Cherub.’
I feel a bit desperate and slightly silly. Isn’t a cherub a little baby angel?
‘And, I know that you are the author of this book and Harley, Snarlington and Boule talked to you about how to stop the Carrion Crow’s book from being published.’
I’m hoping that by mentioning important names there may be a response, but still nothing stirs within the pages.
‘Help me?’ the pitch of my voice rises, so it sounds more like an enquiry.
All remains deathly still inside my room, apart from Buddy’s rhythmic breathing.
I glance over my shoulder at Buddy; he doesn’t move.
‘Mary had a little lamb, her fleece as white as snow and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.’
I feel such a fool. Nursery rhymes for goodness sake! I recite it again, a little louder this time, keeping one eye on Buddy.
The book stares back at me as I read the opening lines of, Sing heigh-ho the Carrion Crow, fol de riddle, de riddle de ho.
I sigh and lift it from my bed, I feel like giving it a little shake, but instead, I turn randomly to different pages before leaving it open at the back.
I check over my shoulders again to see if Buddy has been disturbed.
‘C’mon, c’mon.’ I implore.
I try turning the spikes carefully - hoping to trigger a response.
At every fourth pull, the spikes correct themselves. I focus on the device completely, concentrating my mind, but I realise that I am actually muttering in frustration.
It’s then that I hear chuckling behind me.
I turn and look at Buddy, but he’s still facing in the opposite direction. I turn back and the book has vanished.
I stand and look around wildly, tossing my duvet back in the process; nothing. It’s gone.
Dropping to my knees, I frantically search under my bed, but there’s nothing there either.
‘Yeah, I am quite pleased with this.’
Above me.
I look directly up, and it’s just a fleeting glance, but before I know it, I’m staggering backwards.
Hovering only a hair’s-breadth above me, holding my book, is the Cherub.
For, that is exactly what it is: A Cherub.
It looks no older than a two year old; a little girl – a toddler even - with the curliest short blonde hair, that particularly sticks out behind and around the ears. Although her skin has the texture of human skin, it shines like there is a pure gold sun radiating beneath it. Her wings are short and although she isn’t fat like the Cherubs I have seen in pictures, her wings don’t look nearly large enough to assist in anything even remotely close to flying.
She holds the book between her babyish hands and smiles as she reads; her whole face lighting up with the cheekiest and most mischievous expression. Looking at me, she laughs playfully, and everything in her face, and I mean everything: Her wrinkled-up nose; her teeth; her cheeks, her half-closed blue eyes, the blonde curls around her ears, all pull-together in one instant to live and breathe the laughter.
‘Sorry,’ she says, she even sounds babyish, ‘I couldn’t resist that. I like to tease.’
I have seen a lot, maybe seen it all, but this? No wonder the authors couldn’t understand this book.’
She gives me a look that is half inquisitive – half surprised.
‘I heard you as soon as you started talking to me and waited till you turned away before I could fly up here. I thought about sticking my head out at the back of the book, but I thought that might make you jump.’
Still hovering, her pixie-cute face disappears underneath the book and all I can see is the crown of her curly head bobbing up and down and the book rocking slightly as she shakes with laughter.
I really can’t think of anything to say. I don’t think I should.
She stares at me from over the top of the book; big blue eyes compelling me to share her joviality - but not really bothered if I don’t; quite content revelling in her tomfoolery. I
shift uncomfortably under her gaze, but don’t feel any threat whatsoever.
‘You’re a little girl!’
I nod.
‘You’re a little girl!’ she blurts.
‘I am?’
I feel obliged to say it, even though, physically-speaking, I am probably ten years her senior. I feel a bit daft for replying like that but there’s something else about her, I can’t put my finger on it, a presence; something that exudes a gentle authority and power.
‘Why are you shaking your head?’ she exclaims with a babyish grin.
‘Was I?’
‘Thomas, Jonas and Christopher did that a lot... They never saw me though, because they couldn’t figure out how to solve the combination at the back of the book. They just had to rely on the words and pictures that formed whenever they read from the book. Look what you did when you sang, Mary, had a little lamb.’
I’m captivated by her toddler’s voice.
She deliberately throws the book back up into the air with some force. It crashes into the ceiling with a thump before dropping into her arms as she glides perilously close to the floor. The pages are facing out towards me this time. I flinch at the sound of the clatter and then flinch again as she flies directly in front of my face. I cower slightly. She just smiles.
My eyes turn to the pages she holds out before me. I feel that disobedience isn’t an option. I watch as a nursery rhyme begins to form in antiquated hand writing on the left page and an accompanying pencil-drawn illustration forms on the right page. It’s a black and white picture of me walking and my brother, Buddy, tailing me whichever direction I take, never more than two feet behind me.
Mary had a little lamb, its fleece as white as snow, and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.
I find myself smiling.
‘What do you see? It looks good. I have been waiting AGES…’ The Cherub shouts, making me jump, ‘…for someone who can appreciate how this book works.’
She flips over to the next page quickly.
‘What about this one?’
Her supremely blue, piercing eyes, blaze into mine.
I look back at the page.
The rhyme is:
Goosey, goosey gander, where shall I wander, upstairs and downstairs, in my ladies chamber. There I met an old man who wouldn’t say his prayers, so I took him by his left leg and threw him down the stairs.
Once again, the illustration to the right begins to form and I can see the Reverend Llewellyn wrestling with somebody tall, who is turned away from me. They’re together at the top of a flight of stairs. It’s dark. The Reverend pushes the man forcefully downwards. Sheer hatred is displayed on his face as his victim tumbles viciously out of view, at the bottom of the page.
What on earth was going on there? I look up to meet the eyes of the Cherub who is studying my responses.
‘And, the next,’ she says, satisfied that I have finished. She flips the page once more.
Again: Oranges and Lemons.
I read each line of the nursery rhyme as a lot of different images take form very quickly and I don’t want to miss a thing. Various church steeples appear, along with bell ringers of different ages and sizes, pulling on ropes inside bell towers. Mixed with these, an image forms on the right hand-side of the page of…
...Arthur Kingsley McFadden.
He looks distraught. As, the familiar line, ‘I owe you five farthings sings the bells of St Martins,’ materialises on the opposite page, more pictures are taking shape. I see Arthur moving around holding his head in angst. He’s now holding something in his hand and is shaking his head. This is very interesting and very important but I can’t understand it.
‘When will you pay me, ring the bells of old Bailey.’ The black and white, meandering drawings, keep weaving their shapes and their tales. I now see the inventor holding a letter in his hand. He flops into a chair and covers his head again. I’m looking at him from behind in this picture, but I can clearly tell from his posture that he is sobbing in distress.
A few more lines of the nursery rhyme, and then the entire page quickly turns dark as if somebody has scribbled over it with the nib of a large pencil.
Here comes the candle to light you to bed.
There’s a slightly different style to this drawing; it’s almost as if it’s a charcoal-based piece. A candle appears in the bottom left hand side of the page and bobs steadily up and down. It illuminates a face whose identity is still obscured by the darkness. I push my face closer trying to ascertain just who the person is. Feminine hands clasp the candle as it ascends higher, as if its carrier is climbing some stairs. I can’t quite visualise them and the candle disappears off the right hand-side of the page before I can see who it is.
Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.
I immediately turn back to the drawings. I don’t like where this is going. This is going to be disturbing. Nothing happens for several seconds; the page remains black. I keep watching.
Two hands appear.
I just see a rough outline. They are tying something with what looks like a rope, a really thick rope. I squint. What is this?
It’s at this point that I realise that the rope looks much like a bell-rope, and the hands are unfastening it and not tying it together at all. It dangles loosely. I don’t quite get it. The image disappears.
‘I don’t get it.’ I’m shaking my head again.
‘Lot’s going on in there.’
The little wings of the Cherub are moving as fast as humming birds. She has a quizzical, I want-to-know-more-about-that-one look.
‘What I mean by I don’t get it is…why are you showing me these?’
The book suddenly vibrates violently and the bell, nestled quietly on my pillow, sparks into life, chiming loudly.
The Cherub positively guffaws, ‘Darling, I’m not showing you anything. You exchanged drops of your blood with the book and it knows you now. It’s rewarding you. It is reading your sub-conscious thoughts.’
There is something sweet and genuine about the way she called me darling, but my attention has been diverted to the first (of many) cuts that my battered hands have received, starting with when I sliced my finger on the spikes at the back of the book.
‘I cannot see what you are seeing, Shelly, that is your name, isn’t it? This is your story now.’
The book is bulging at the seams insistently. The Cherub is being buffeted back and forth as she hovers - a bit like the gulls I see when a gale is blowing out to sea.
Her airy demeanour doesn’t alter though.
‘I think the book and the bell really wants you to see this next part.’
The next page is the one that kicked this whole escapade off: Sing heigh, ho, the Carrion Crow.
I am desperate to see this.
In the middle of the page sits a black crow. The picture is stationary. There is no movement whatsoever. Then, something stirs around the edges of the page. From every angle, people of all different shapes, ages and sizes walk towards the crow. They walk slowly and encircle it, walking round and round in an anti-clockwise direction. While they all move, the image of the crow seems separate, as if it is a foreign entity, displaced in the wrong picture.
He suddenly moves.
The crow places its wings over its face and begins to rise. Its feathery wings morph slowly into a dark cowl as it grows. Its clawed-feet disappear, as the blackened garment, half feathers – half fabric, descends and pools about its feet. Its shoulders broaden as its shrouded body turns more humanesque, whilst its face retains the grotesque, gnarled features of a crow. It stands with its beak pointing up at an angle as if it’s looking out of the book. For the first time in any of the images, I see colour; its eyes – blood shot and bulging red. Its black beak extends menacingly from its face and it moves its head slowly as it surveys the people with cruel intent. It looks intelligent and calculating. There is something in its movement that is other-worldly. It’s as if such a movemen
t does not belong on this planet. Its jerks are terrifying and unearthly.
From one side to another, it turns its face slowly as the people walk around it obliviously. Occasionally people stop and talk to it. It waits, as they converse quite naturally. It doesn’t move in response to most, but occasionally nods its beak slowly at others. Arthur steps forward and gives something to the crow and seems quite happy talking to it, as do others. This continues for a long time and my attention is completely focused upon this illustrated segment. I’m not even reading the words of the nursery rhyme; they have become so familiar to me.
Strangely, I’m not even aware of the Cherub at this time. Suddenly and quite inexplicably, several people in the crowd start pushing one another. Only a few, but enough to make the others stop and look around. Everybody is looking confused. Some look from one to another, but most stand there and look blank. They look lost – abandoned and forlorn. Some turn and look out of the book. They look to be in pain. They look...blinded.
The Carrion Crow is now nodding and turning its cruel beak in a circular motion. I can see: Mark, Arthur, Mr Washwater, Eren, my mother, and others I vaguely recognise. Several people are now pointing at the Crow and this prompts the others to awaken from their aimless staring outside the book. I see Arthur do something to himself – I’m not sure what, and then, he staggers away clutching his chest. The Crow’s beak falls open slightly. It’s salivating; blood and phlegm drip onto its feathered body. If a Crow can give a callous smile, then this thing certainly can.
Then, as I watch, I see its mouth moving as if it is talking and I can tell that it is goading all of them. Suddenly, everybody starts reaching inside their coats, jackets, shirts, jumpers – whatever they are wearing. Out come lots of weapons. Some hold sticks, some knives, some crossbows, guns, rods, whips, chains. They circle the Crow. I see Mark, he’s reaching into his pocket and he takes out a dagger. He throws it in the direction of the Crow’s chest. Everybody in the picture takes aim, and while he is laughing, they throw their weapons randomly at the Crow.
Then, he is gone.
Where did he..?
I search everywhere on the page but don’t see him, but what I do see disturbs me deeply:
People buckling to the floor – people I know - clutching different parts of their faces. Some fall and look either dead or unconscious. Their own weapons have pierced each other’s bodies, but they clutch their heads. Some manage to fall to their knees; some writhe in agony on the floor. Only a few manage to stay standing. I search again for familiar faces. Mark is holding a cut on his cheek. He staggers towards someone who is writhing on the floor and bends down.
Despite his pain, he has a look of astonishment. He takes the person by the arms and is coaxing them in his direction. But then, the person grabs him and pushes him on the floor. There’s blood smeared all over their face as they pound him with their fists. Yet again, I peer closer trying to discern the identity of the person.
Camille.
Mark manages to break free from her grasp and clambers to his feet. He walks to the edge of the page as I see a silent Camille hurling abuse at him with everything she’s got. Mark stops at the edge of the page ever so slightly off it, so I can’t quite see anything above his shoulders. He appears to take something out of his pocket; it’s sharp and pointed. I see him wince in pain, his eyes close and then the pencilled features on his face vanish as he drops off the page out of view. Around him are the remnants of utter carnage, as people are now stamping furiously on the heads of stationary, motionless bodies.
I stand back- aghast. I’m sweating and I feel waves of nausea. What the hell’s going on? What has Mark done to Camille? How on earth does he even know Camille? The image blurs out as I see more and more people fighting. And I look to the writing on the left.
‘And shot his own sow right through the heart.’
The words linger like freezing mist, chilling me to stone. Something ties Mark with Camille. ‘His own sow...’
Oh no.
‘I need to sit down.’ I hear myself; I sound exhausted.
I bury my head in my palms. Please, don’t let that be.
I stare at the Cherub who spins upwards on a diagonal, before turning and gliding behind me. I flop down on to my bed. I feel a renewed desire to shove those sheets straight over my head and hope for it all to go away. My little angelic acquaintance lands feet first next to me and places the book down in front of her. I consider her appearance as I process the following:
They’re all killing each other and they don’t even know it. Do they even know that their adversary is the Carrion Crow? They end up killing one another or in some cases, themselves.
A great fear and apprehension draws over me. I feel darkness in my soul.
‘You know I can’t do this, don’t you?
I could almost laugh.
The Cherub folds her arms as we make eye contact. Her gold tunic shimmers. I see ripples, like waves of light, flowing over it. Her demeanour has changed to one of compassionate concern as her tiny wings vibrate rapidly, then stop and point up, before vibrating rapidly again. She wears small pointy velvet shoes that rise up at the back of her heel becoming straps that curl over her tiny legs like an unfurling flower. She wears dungaree-shorts that match her golden tunic, and appear to hold themselves around the waist by thread-like violet strands that plume upwards, spreading outwards as they move up above her belly button, like the explosion from a volcano.
I have no choice, have I? I cannot back out.
‘Listen, I want you to really listen to me.’
The Cherub surveys me earnestly, but I can see the smile creeping back at the corners of her lips.
‘Listen to me!’ I implore, not convinced that I am been taken seriously.
‘I am just thirteen, right?...get it? How on earth...do...I…handle...this? Why can’t you handle this?’
‘A human world…human pain…healing human hand.’
I lose my cool.
‘Oh, shut up with that shit! Did you hear a single word of what I just said?!’
I don’t care if I wake up Buddy, or if the police officer outside comes barging through the door.
‘I contravene, Shelly, and I am in breach of moral laws and sanctions that you haven’t even encountered, that is…if I intervene directly. I’m just a smiley guide who operates on the margin between many dimensions. I want to help and am helping the best I can right now.’
She chuckles.
‘Your human brain tells you that I am standing-off and not getting involved, but it simply isn’t the case. The book I instigated has been channelling your unconscious thoughts, bringing them in line with your conscious thoughts and these are interpreted by the book, hence, you were able to see the illustrations that match the nursery rhymes. And, hopefully you’ve noticed that I have one finger in the prophecy chapter…I cannot see the pictures that you see. It was something, quite sadly, that Thomas, Jonas and Christopher were also unable to do. Had they been able to, this mess could have been addressed sooner.’
She sighs, but it doesn’t diminish her smile.
‘I don’t understand why you can’t get involved; you did when Harley and co contacted you.’
‘Yes!’ she gushes with a slight squeak at the end. ‘I helped them write the book, but the guidance for them was in the book, the book itself. They should have taken and applied the words – that’s my indirect involvement.’
‘But, the Carrion Crow!’ I splutter now. ‘He’s directly involved in everything. He’s fooling people directly: Surely?’
I still sense I am in the presence of incredible, gently persuasive authority, so I just say it anyway;
‘Why don’t you just kick the Crow’s ass? The Stone Angel beat that weird sea creature thing earlier on.’
‘I have some doubt that I could. It’s not the right way to defeat him anyway. You are not fighting against a flesh and blood adversary here, you know. If I fought the Carrion Crow, and beat hi
m, other Whispers may take his place. This is a very attractive Island! It’s like I said, you are looking at all of this through your own simplistic, human understanding of how your world works. The words that Whispers leave imprinted on peoples’ minds have a massive and deep effect on them, reaching so far down into their unconscious, humans are moved to say and do things that they don’t understand?...You can’t beat that out of people.’
I feel like I am fighting fire with cheese here, but the Cherub speaks with a childish eloquence that is unnerving - I feel like she is looking at her point of view alone, and can’t or won’t get involved in a direct manner, so I ask:
‘So, why did the Stone Angel come and save us, earlier, then? He got his hands dirty.’
‘He must want to stay on earth. He may have a vested interest to stay on earth. Some of us are assigned to this planet, or we assign ourselves. Believe it or not, this is the only place in the entire universe where words like yours are spoken and it’s a very attractive place for the Whispers who want to dwell in the unconscious thoughts of humans.’
‘And you don’t want to stay on earth? But, that doesn’t make sense; you’ve been cooped up in that book for centuries.’
Her face explodes in a rapturous smile. Her tiny wings turn purple and fizz up and down excitedly behind her.
‘No I haven’t - not at all. The hole at the back is a transporter. I have been back and forth between dimensions.’
She then, inexplicably, sticks her tongue out at me playfully. I can’t believe she’s even done that in the middle of this conversation. It feels like I am discussing philosophy with an extremely intelligent infant. That is, until her next line:
‘Oh, it’s all a bit of fun really – writing the book for the authors. I led them down several wrong paths on purpose. Totally infuriated them it did...’
‘A bit of fun!’
I cannot believe what I am hearing; my blood begins to boil.
‘You only helped those authors because you thought it was fun! People were killing one another in the last nursery rhyme I read. I know these people. I care for…for...a couple of them. The Crow is…is, deceiving them all. You can’t just fly out and have a laugh with me too. I’m going to die tomorrow. Do you even care about that?’
‘So, if I gave you a book that, if read correctly, would stop this violence; would you use it to save your life and the lives of others?’
I’m caught off-guard. ‘Yeah, of course I…’
‘Written words, spoken words: Any power in those?’ She cuts me off, still smiling.
‘Yeah, of course.’ I try to sound convincing.
‘And, if I provided the map, would you use it to find where you’re going. Would you even recognise the destination? Could you see yourself taking scenic detours from time to time, whilst still going in the right direction?’
She beams shamelessly.
‘What’s that phrase I have heard banded around,’ she says, ‘a good workman never blames his tools.’
She flies a little closer.
‘Look, Shelly, I am bound by rules and codes that forbid me from using any physical force – besides which, look at me!? The Stone Angel is an earth-bound Whisper, so he can take a more hands-on approach. His name is Kerren by the way. I am higher ranking I guess, so, Whispers like me do things differently. I am a scribe by the way. Scribes alter the thoughts of the masses on a global scale. Did you hear that? Glooooobaaaal! The Carrion Crow wrote a book addressing the nations, it’s called…’
‘The Last, Mass Hysteria of Mankind.’
‘Exactly. Global Hysteria - for the whole of mankind. He’s aiming big. Kerren moves and in turn, is moved by the thoughts and feelings of those who come to the churchyard in St. Harold’s. He’s a localised Whisper, as was the Whisper he fought. I travel between the dimensions.’
‘Well, stay longer in this dimension and talk to us.’
At this, I stop for a moment, surprised at my boldness and confidence in my attack. It’s a fleeting thought, but I don’t have time to dwell on it, as the Cherub is speaking again.
‘I have already, and do want to get involved, but you are not tuning in to the way certain Whispers do things, namely, myself and the Carrion Crow. You have a square-pegs to round-holes approach in your mind as to how I am doing things.’
I shake my head slowly.
The bell on my pillow bursts into song once again. The book starts to shake beneath the Cherub’s feet . She shoots a quizzical look at it.
‘Ahhhh. There’s more.’
‘More what?’
‘More words that the book wants to share with you.’
I’m confused and a little perturbed by the surprise on the Cherub’s face.
‘Seems to be a lot of unconscious thoughts rifling through your brain, Shelly. You have triggered something else from within this book, and you didn’t even know it.’
She opens the large book and flips to the next page. She pushes it into my face.
I am confused, but engaged.
It is:
Mary, Mary quite contrary, how does your garden grow?
I quickly scan the rest of the nursery rhyme to remind myself of the words, but I have sung this so many times in the playground.
Nothing, as yet, has appeared on the page on the right.
With silver bells and cockle shells and pretty maids all in a row.
Hold on, Mr Washwater was explaining this one yesterday; these were instruments of torture in Tudor England.
A violent image appears immediately: An entire face; a woman in her late twenties.
Her long dark hair hangs limply over her pale, listless face. Her teeth are stained and decayed. The blackest, matted hair partly covers each of her clouded, raven eyes. They stare malevolently at me...right into me. Her skin is pulled tight around her high cheek bones.
But, there is no beauty here.
Only a gaunt, savage shadow; a blood-less, heartless demon.
Something terrible is etched into every single sinewy line and crease on her face. Her lips curl up slightly in a hellish smile.
I know this face.
This is a face from my past; a face I mustn’t remember.
I begin to make an utterly desperate, throaty sound:
The silent scream.
Suddenly, she raises a knife. She shrieks back at me. The noise is like a thousand jet engines in my head. Her face contorts into every satanic evil that can, and cannot be imagined. I am transfixed. I feel myself falling over backwards. Face-to-face with my past; I can’t handle it. I cannot stop myself. I cannot move. I just topple backwards, smashing into the floor in abject fear.
Frozen stiff.
‘Help me. Help me, Shut it!’ I scream, ‘Shut it, pleeassseee...shu, shu, shu…’
My vision blurs; it feels like someone has pressed the patterned glass on the underside of a tumbler straight into my eyes. I feel explosions within my mind as I tell my body to breathe, but my breath has been taken away. I feel fear like no other.
I remember.
I remember now.
My body is taking full control as I spasm into a panic attack. I feel what little oxygen I have caught in my upper chest. I can’t physically move but my mind feels alive. can’t look up to see if the Cherub is still there. My peripheral vision begins to darken, light sucked out rapidly from within my eyes. I hear noises behind me...
Mis-fit, Misplaced, Miss Shelly Clover Page 17