It’s been a long day. The bloody neighbour was drilling
something at 5am, and not even I could sleep through that. The hot water heater
broke down at some point, so halfway through my shower it went ice cold and
stayed that way. Some idiot had flipped his car over on the highway, so I was
stuck for ages in traffic. I could see the guy sitting on the kerb, orange fake
tan unmarred by his close call. He had this stupid grin on his face as he was
being interviewed, like it would all blow over if he was suave enough. The rest
of the day went pretty much like any other, work is work no matter the day.
Except this time three of the temps called in sick, so I had to put in an extra
hour. After ten hours of work and another in traffic I’m finally walking up my
garden path. I let myself in the door, and throw my jacket and keys on the
entry table. I glance into the kitchen, nothing in there but a stack of dishes
I haven’t gotten around to washing and an empty fridge. I really need to go
shopping. Right now, though, I couldn’t be assed. I call for takeout Chinese
and eat it in front of the TV. I throw the rubbish and the bin and put my feet
up. Soon my eyes are drooping despite the incessant noise and flashing. I fall
asleep.
I jerk awake. My mouth is dry and papery and there’s a crick
in my neck from the odd angle. The TV, having detected no movement for a while,
has turned itself off, leaving the room dark except for the thin strips of
streetlight that filter in through the blinds. I feel something wet on my
shoulder, and when I flick the light on I see it’s a huge splodge of drool. I
strip off the shirt and throw it in the laundry hamper, then head to the
bathroom to brush my teeth before I crash. The neighbourhood is quiet except
for the occasional faraway whisper of a car on the main road. The house feels
too large, full of black empty spaces that push in on my tiled little island of
light. The mirror shows me dark bags under my eyes. The sound of my toothbrush
fills my ears. I brush for ten minutes, making sure to get every nook and
cranny of every tooth. Dental hygiene was drilled into me when I was small, and
it stuck no matter what I do. I go to rinse my mouth, but it’s as if my vision
is blurred. No, not blur, but fog. Thick ropy tendrils pour through the doorway
like smoke, filling up this tiny space. The hairs on the back of my neck
prickle, and though the air doesn’t move I feel as if a cold breeze is blowing around my head. The fog gets
thicker and thicker, now roiling and thrashing not two metres away. The sink
presses cold and hard into my back. A skeletal hand reaches out of the fog
towards me.
I scramble backwards, flailing arms sending bottles
clattering to the floor. A figure appears out of the mist. It must be walking,
but for all the world it looks like it materialised out of the fog. It’s tall,
so much taller than me, clad in a tattered black cloak. Its face is hidden by a
deep cowl that seems to draw the light from the air, the light dims and
flickers. From the mist it draws a huge scythe, curved and wickedly sharp. No
no no! I don’t believe this. There is no grim reaper come to collect your soul
when your time runs out, I don’t believe. But my heart is beating painfully
fast in my chest, and I hear my own soft whimpering. Its hand reaches into the
robe, and brings out an hourglass. For a brief moment I’m captivated by its
stunning detail, tiny figures meticulously etched into bleached bone, fine sand
dribbling from one crystal chamber to the other. Then I realise what it is, and
I shiver all the more. Its hand reaches up to the cowl, and in one motion
throws it back, revealing the terrible grinning visage of a human skull. Its
eyes seem to draw mine, though fear claws at my belly when I even look in its
direction. It towers over me, drawing the warmth and light out of the room. The
light is so dim now, soon to be extinguished like my own life. The tiles are
frigid against my bare skin. The last grains of sand settle to the bottom of
the hourglass. The hand reaches out, snagging my neck and dragging me to my
feet. Empty sockets stare into me, the scythe blade arcs back, and I close my
eyes.
I open them again as I am set on my feet. The scythe is
resting against the shower rail, and the skull faces me expectantly. A skeletal
hand flips the hourglass and taps it a couple times, bone clicking on bone.
From some fold in its robe the figure pulls out something bright green and
bristly. It points at the toothbrush still clenched in my hand, and holds up
its own.
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