In the kitchen

My mind began to wander and my watery vision slid across the room, the bright light starving off new thoughts. Sensations were slipping from me fast, I had to get out. I steadied myself on the pantry door and glanced into the kitchen.

I heard their boots stamp on the concrete walk outside as they marched towards the bunker. I hid behind a large barrel of port and waited. Waited for the foreign voices, the confusion, a sudden movement and the ensuing gunfire. I tightened my grip on my satchel.

“Thomas?”

Mother? I thought, what are you doing here?

“Thomas, the dogs choking on something again, will you go and see to him?” she asked

It was a trick. I was certain of it. They were using familiar voices to lure me out, these guys were good.

I stumbled out from my hiding place and burst through the doorway into the blistering sun, my eyes shut tight, away. I ran till my lungs burnt. My satchel was being thrown about and limbs were moving together by total chance, I was running, quite plainly, for my life. Sounds and accents passed me, the temperature altered around me, surfaces changed beneath me. All I saw was the blurred horizon of a burning star.

Days later, weakness overcame me.

I woke suddenly to seagulls pecking at my sick. I was laying face down in a country road. Except for the yeeping of the gulls it was rather quiet, not much of a wind either. It must have been about five or six 'o' clock in the morning, the surrounding fields were steeped a greasy blue.

I felt for my satchel, inside my prize. For this I had waited months, slaved away in Turkish bath houses and in the sewers of Vienna. This was mine and truly mine for it longed for me as much as I for it. We were bound in the next life and I had stolen the future. Close to tears of expectation and relief I unbuttoned the flap.

My face dropped. The tears dried.

Three dead kittens and a broken yo-yo.