Blood Fugue by Joseph D'Lacey Page B

stone and wood it held less sway. Less but enough. And there was much sport to be had there.
    Kerrigan woke to find himself lying fully clothed on his bed. The manuscript he’d been correcting was beside him along with the marker he’d failed to recap before falling asleep. Now there was a deep red stain on the coverlet and some of the pages were mashed where he’d rolled onto them. The bedside light was still on.
    His conscious mind, rapidly returning, wondered what had woken him. His subconscious, still strong in those first few moments of waking, knew the answer. He wanted to sit up. The longer he lay still, the less likely it was he would be able to move. He wrestled with himself; told himself it was only indecision keeping him from moving, but his increasing heartbeat told another story. He couldn’t move for fear he’d make a sound. Someone was in the house.
    If he didn’t make his move now, he’d lose the ability. Paralysis would take him over. Blood rushing faster in his ears, he reached for his chest and felt for the binder.
    It wasn’t there.
    Suddenly, he needed to piss like he’d held it in all day.
    Christ, where had he put his binder? Why had he taken it off? Now he would have to reach for the bedside drawer and open it. They’d surely hear him then. Feeling like his joints were rusted beyond use, he stretched his left arm out towards the drawer.
    Before his fingers made contact with the bare pine of the bedside table, the lights went off. All of them. He froze, mid stretch. Any noise he made would be louder in that darkness. His hand grew stiff. He was losing control; no longer able to make his body move the way he wanted it to.
    Something was stopping him. Something close by.
    ‘I am here, James. Right here with you now.’
    The voice was everywhere. Wasn’t it? Or was it only in his head?
    ‘I’m so near, I could touch you if I desired. I could touch you anywhere I wanted and then what would you do?’
    He felt the weight then, same as always. It started on his stomach, a medicine ball rolling towards his chest, crushing the air out of him, constricting everything. Below it, he could not move. Not now, not ever. The weight rolled higher until it crushed his sternum. The breath went out of him and that was his last movement.
    Limbs frozen. Air gone. Lungs crumpled.
    He felt the initial contact against the ribs on his left side, not far below his armpit. It was warm and wet to begin with. A blunt, insistent pressure against his flesh, nuzzling his intercostal muscles but pressing inward, pressing hard, searching for an entry point. The skin of his chest went numb but Kerrigan knew what was happening to him; it was forcing its tube-like proboscis through a tear in his stretched epidermis, parting his muscles, widening the space between two ribs and burrowing deep.
    He was screaming, sitting up in his bed and screaming with every molecule of air inside him. When he stopped he breathed in and screamed again.
    ‘Jesus, Jimmy. Jesus Christ, baby, what is it? What’s wrong?’
    The light clicked on, and squinting into the sudden glare he saw Amy, naked, but holding the sheet to her chest. She hadn’t taken off her make up and her eyes were dark-ringed and wide, staring. Kerrigan clutched the side of his chest, squeezed his eyes shut, crushing the phantom sensations away. Soon he was rocking back and forth, crying.
    ‘Jimmy, talk to me, Goddamnit. Are you having a heart attack? Do you need me to call the doctor?’
    He shook his head, still breathing hard.
    ‘Jimmy? What’s that?’
    He looked where she was pointing at a large dark stain on the coverlet.
    ‘Jimmy, honey, I think you peed yourself. God.’ She swung her legs out of the bed. ‘Shit,’ she said, realising that she’d been lying in his piss. Grabbing her discarded clothes she ran for the bathroom and closed the door.
    Kerrigan lay back against the headboard, too exhausted to move. The heat of his urine quickly faded and became cold.