Rota

 The circle of life

It’s getting dark, and the match is about to start. I need to go in the kitchen. I need a beer. Arsenal is playing Chelsea and there’s two league points between them.

But I'm afraid to go into there. Even with the light on.

I shouldn't be afraid, but I'm only human. When I'm in there, there's something I can feel. It’s invisible, present; breathing with me. And there is a smell that's, just as they say in all the best horror movies, sweet and rotting.

Of course, there is. It's the kitchen. There would be sweet rotting scents at times. Could it be the cabbage left over from the night before? Vegetables do give off a particular smell.

Some days, like this evening, I will sit in the dark on my own, trying to take on that flooding used in phobias. They say it’s the strategy for facing and overcoming your worst fears.

But then I hear that sound again.

It as if something is trying to move towards you, but it's feet are stuck to the floor. It’s like something moist and slimy is trying to move. It’s like when the heel of your shoe becomes loose, or the inner sole of your shoe doesn’t quite align well with your own flesh. It makes a slapping sound, so to avoid disturbing others, you try shuffling.

It’s like that but worse. It’s more that sticky sound you hear when you’re trying to walk through sludge. But you’re still not quite able to disguise the sound.

And then there were the times when I feel a breath on my cheek. As if a moth or a butterfly has flown by and brushed against me.

It's always the same on these match nights.

But I'm determined not to let fear get the better of me. I make myself a cup of strong Yorkshire tea and sit drinking it, looking around at the shadows. The shadows are not quite dark enough, so everything has a certain shape that lets your imagination run riot.

Is that a humped creature over in the corner?

What's that slender thing swaying? Is there something hanging from the ceiling?

Something brushes against me on my head. I quickly slap myself. Only to realise it's just a tendril of my own hair blowing against me. What is making it blow?

I have had enough. I’ll have to watch the match replay tomorrow with the boys. What I need is an early night to relax my nerves.

As I stand, I feel a light pressure on my shoulders trying to push me back down, as if trying to keep me seated in the dark. I force myself to stand anyway, trying not to move too quickly.

Walking towards the door, I keep my feet evenly paced. The back of my neck feels chilled. My breath is ready to burst into panic. I’m silent, but sense my voice silent is ready to scream at the slightest movement.

My eyes try to swivel around inside my head to see what is behind me.

And as I reach the door handle, I feel something scaly covering my own hands.

I open the door, not looking back as I walk up the stairs. It’s not fast—but it’s definitely not slow. Flinging myself into the bed, I refuse to pull the quilt over my eyes.

I breathe deeply and evenly.

I am not afraid.

After all, I’m a man.

---

In the morning when I wake the sun is shining. There’s warmth on my face that I’ve never felt before. My hands feel fleshy and plump. My eyes, not so dry. My feet feel warm; my skin, smooth. Not clammy or slimy.

Suddenly, I’m not so lonely. I feel as if there is someone beside me: a friend. I sense they’re a little nervous and a little afraid, but I’ll reassure them.

The thing is, I'm just as frightened as they are. And I should not be frightened.

After all, I’m not a man.

It’s just that, later tonight … I’ll have to go downstairs into the kitchen again.

And there’s something else waiting down there.