'That sumptuous satin, cushioning my head, caressing my neck; it's divine. The slow tick…tock of a watch, portentous against the silence, tranquil in the darkness. Why does time amuse me so?
Hang about; darkness? Why is everything so black? Am I blind?
Memories struggle to form. They're there, glowing softly like lanterns in a pea-souper. But those persistent amorphous blobs drift like a flotilla of jellyfish across my mind, refusing to become descript.
I close my eyes, reopen them. No, it's pitch, so complete that not even shadows can form.
And what is that rumbling? Oh; it's me. My stomach's whining echoes like groans bouncing about the void between distant mountain peaks.
That attribution: specific, tangible, as if recalled from memory rather than metaphoric. How can I know of such things?
I lurch forward to sit upright. Whack! My head and marble collide; back down horizontal I go.
No pain invades, but the smack is a catalyst. A flickering kaleidoscope of fleeting violent memories starts playing, raining like a Tommy gun's bullets; images flash, then die: shadows whorl around a red-lit room; Victorian street lights struggle to penetrate cobbled alleyways; rats swarm the docks in their thousands; fangs gnash, closer, CLOSER, until…
…a sweeping cloak, its shady folds hiding infinite depths, obliterates every trace of light from my mind.
But my memories have rebooted. I am — I own — the night. It calls to me from beyond this ancient sarcophagus. My stomach, throat, fangs — every fibre of my undead being — answer.
The awakening (every night, the awakening) is the worst; I hate tight spaces.
My ice-cold hands lift away the equally frigid coffin lid, its weight as nothing to this iron-fortified corporeal shell.
Mountains, I hear you; death walks tonight! Don't you dare disappoint me.'
Selected - Weekly Write - Week 11
Published in Issue #27