The Game
The Game
She hears him long before she sees him.
It's the game.
She lies in her attic bed in the almost darkness,
listening as the house speaks in different languages.
The gurgling voice of the water pipes... always thirsty,
the roof where crows land with pattering claws,
the grandfather clock, tick-tocking around the house.
She hears him on the stairs; he has taken off his shoes.
It must be him .... isn’t it? The game continues.
He now plays the staircase like an out of tune instrument.
She knows he has never learned the secrets of the stairs:
the squeak and speak, the mumble and murmur,
the shushed and hushed?
She has!
Suddenly, a stair board groan, new to her tuned ears!
Her mind, a tap filling it up with worry. The game threatens.
Then she recognises that last step
and she knows he has arrived...
but she's confused, why is he hesitating?
The game starts to be frightening;
the game where she must never close her eyes!
Silence…so noisy she can’t hear herself think.
Her reasoning is smeared with fear. The game goes on.
She draws the sheet close, she fills her lungs tight.
The handle turns, the door sneaks into the room.
Her voice has choked, his offers nothing.
Is it him? She's lost, confused!
Her heart shrivels as he moves nearer-near.
She stops breathing, padlocks her eyes, feigns sleep and....!
The game is lost... to the silhouette looming in her bedroom.
Ian Souter
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