The Loop

two

Stood in the middle of the attic.

My feet firmly planted to the spot.

My palms clammy.

My eyes scanning the vastness of space around me.

I slipped into a sort of panic when the gun slipped out of my hands. Yes, a gun but more on that in due course. Other matters must be addressed first.

I managed to grab it before it landed on my feet. Both hands were needed, not because it was heavy but its potency fooled me into believing that it was heavy. Grabbing the gun in the manner that I did, that is to say it was akin to a mother rescuing her child from a fall, engendered a feeling of deep reproach for myself and I knew at the moment when it weighed heavy in my hands that this was unnatural to me. I so much wanted to blame my sweaty hands but I knew better; loops cannot be fooled.

As I put the gun on the desk a tap on the window startled me.

Terror followed.

Almost immediately my heart began pounding. What the devil could that be? As I paced around the room, avoiding the window, looking about me for anything to occupy my mind, I began talking to myself; mouse-quiet to begin with, desperate to conjure up reverie.

'I will not look, I will not look.'

'What's there to see anyway?

'There's nothing to see.'

'Absolutely nothing.'

It's just those mice playing tricks on me.

I sat down on the wooden floor.

My back arched.

Rocking back and forth.

My palms flat on the wood.

Seeking comfort; my attempts futile.

My heartbeat quickened

My rocking increased in frequency.

My voice grew louder. 'Please don't make me look. I don't want to see what's out there,' drawing in breath as I spoke.

Suddenly, I paused.

Twee, twee, twee.

Birdsong?

I stood up unsteadily and waddled slowly towards the window, fear fading with each step. As I approached the window I stopped short when I caught site of my reflection. It's not what's outside that I should fear. It's what's inside that's scarier. Red-veined, sullen, sunken, tired eyes that replaced once bright, pearlescent, twinkly whites were staring back at me. The protuberant eyes looked relentless like they were searching for something, perhaps a way to disassociate themselves from this once round, sweet face-which by notion of its sweetness and androgyny had seemed open and honest and attractive to a lot of people, now gaunt and shrivelled like a prune. Who is this stranger? I touched my face and the reflection confirmed it was me. My neck -long, thin, upright and withered, resembling a chicken's. My hair- colourless, lifeless and streaked with grey, resembling dirt. My face-oh my dear sweet face – emaciated, haggard, pitiful, scraggy, skeletal and sunken, resembling a craggy old hag. My face suited a corpse a few weeks into its everlasting stint better than the middle aged woman who was staring at me. I needed to go the way of the skeleton and return to dust.