by Lorraine Messineo

Created on: December 31, 2008

Prophecy

I lay perfectly still watching the large figure move about in the darkness. The only light in the room is filtered from outside through the upward tilted mini-blinds. Darkness and the hood of his old, worn sub-arctic parka shroud his face from me. His huge form skulks across the room, from the front door to my office. A dim appears, but I cannot see what he is doing as the room is recessed behind the kitchen. The sound of papers shuffling and the stubborn wooden drawers of my desk shushing unevenly on their hardware quickly follow the light. And then it is dark again. I dare not move. I barely dare to breathe.

Exiting the office, he makes his way across the expanse of the living room. He is very close to me. Involuntarily my muscles begin to spasm and a book slips out from under my right foot, falling to the floor with a heavy thud. I had been studying for an exam and must have fallen asleep in the process. Why is the light not on?

He stops and looks in my direction. I hold my breath. He continues across the room and enters my bedroom, closing the door behind him. Under the door, I see a thin band of light.

I should call "911", but the books and papers that I had been studying earlier are strewn over and around me. I must either remain still or risk tipping the intruder off to my awareness of his presence. The phone is an agonizing four feet away. The couch is in complete darkness. Thin ribbons of outdoor light fall on the ceiling and wall opposite the window. I grope in the deep shadows, trying to secure the books and papers so that I can access the phone. I do not take my eyes off the bedroom door.

Before I can fully free myself the door is wrenched open. The figure is backlit now. His hooded head is fully concealed by the contrast of lighting. He stops at the linen closet, opening the door and rifling quickly through the contents.

He slips into the bathroom and although I can't see him, I can hear the doors under the sink squeak on rusted hinges as he invades my world of cleaning fluids and Tampax. The drawers, swollen from years of steam and soap, groan reluctantly as he pulls them open, one by one. I can hear the contents bounce against the tile floor as he impatiently empties them. The warped door on the old medicine cabinet pops as he yanks it open. If he is looking for drugs, he will be disappointed. I don't even take aspirin.

I am still trying to get to the phone. The process of moving slowly and noiselessly causes every muscle in my neck, back and

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