Soon enough she had no choice but to give in, there was no point anymore, his voice now echoing off into the distance as the world blurred; the metronome still loud and hypnotic.
It wasn’t long before that space behind her eyes grew dark, colours came and went spinning in kaleidoscopic waves pulling her back, further than she’d ever been before, his voice growing fainter yet always there in the back of her mind, urging, probing for more than she was willing to give.
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Stepping out of her waking world, the nauseous feelings began to subside, ethereal light strange and comforting shone all around creating a feeling of familiarity and contentment.
The last time she’d done this, that she’d allowed him to bring her here, she hadn’t noticed the cottage on the far side of the woods before, or the ancient willow standing guard over the brook that ran through the garden. From it hung a swing, suspended by aging rope frayed and worn through the passage of time. The wooden seat swayed, cracked and weathered, yet still moving hauntingly on the breeze.
Over on the far side just beyond the house stood a small orchard, trees laden with apples, plums, pears all ready for harvesting, the fruit that had fallen now rotting on the ground.
It was a strange place, almost as if time had stopped, yet it existed, waiting patiently for someone to pick up from where it had left off.
Walking through the gate the sun sinking lower in the twilight sky, she bent down running her slender fingers through the fragrant herbs that ran the length of the cracked, snaking path, the unkempt lawn beside it gone to seed; the dandelions and daisies suffocating beneath their tall, dew laden blades.
Hearing movement she instinctively wrapped her cardigan closer, an eerie mist now descending, the skies turbulent and foreboding, the darkness swallowing any peace she may have felt.
Everything was fading, receding into the shadows, even the house seemed no more than a weak reflection of its former charm; the last remaining colour seeping from the jasmine and honeysuckle that framed the front door.
Terrified she moved forward, eyes darting, panicking as the iron door knob moved further and further away from her trembling hand the closer she got. She needed to return, to get back to the safety of her waking world, but the door had been closed and she was now alone.
Heart now pounding she turned and began to run. Faster and faster she ran ignoring the house and away through the trees, darkness following her wherever she turned. She’d always hated the dark but with no way back continued on, rogue branches slicing at her bare legs, unseen voices taunting her, calling her name from all directions.
Suddenly a dog barked, yet still she saw nothing, the voices getting louder, closer, laughing menacingly.
There was no escape.
Breathless and heart pounding, the tears burning as they rolled down her face, she fell to the ground defeated and afraid.
Then silence.
R.M Roberts ©2010
Tales From Behind A Cushion 