That Soft Exhalation

That Soft Exhalation

Steven French

You wake up. This time it isn’t because of acid reflux. You’ve cut back on the spiced-up food lately, despite the lure of that Punjabi place that just opened down the high street. And it’s also not because of the foxes, fucking or fighting or killing some poor screaming creature in the back garden.

So, you lie there, in the dark, staring at the shadowed wall across from the bottom of the bed. You find himself listening carefully. You can hear your partner, snoring softly beside you. Turning your head to the right you can see the shape of them under the covers, dimly outlined by the faint glow of the streetlight spilling through the gap between the bedroom curtains. You slowly reach over as if to touch their bare shoulder, then at the last second, you withdraw your hand and regret pulling it back.

You sigh gently and around that soft exhalation you hear something else, something that is barely a sound, just the merest of vibrations in the still air. Turning your head back, carefully, as if not wanting to add to this emerging chorus the rustling of your hair on the pillow, the noise comes again, still faint, just audible, but now, repeated.

You swallow as a chill runs up your body and your fists clench. It sounds for all the world as if someone is breathing, slowly, lightly, to your left. Where there is no more of the bed, just the floor. You close, then open, your eyes and try to swallow, ready to shout, to cry out, but your throat has dried up. Lifting yourself up on your elbows, just a little, you stare straight up at the ceiling then suddenly, dramatically, look over the edge of the bed to the floor.

And see a long dark shape laying there, one eye open, caught in that faint neon light. A mouth opens in a smile, and a hand is moved, slightly, just enough to allow a long, thin blade to glint, momentarily.