The patio door is carelessly unlocked and glides open with ease. I only slide it a fraction, just enough to slip through the gap. Once inside, I move quietly into the lounge and take in my surroundings. The furniture is too large for the compact space, leaving little room to manoeuvre, but the open curtains and almost-full moon outside enable me to see well enough to avoid bumping into something and attracting attention.
On the rare occasion I’m required to break into a property, I remain still and silent as a statue upon entering, as the house talks to me. I listen patiently to differentiate between the noise of a person, of floorboards creaking or the rumbling belly of a heating system. Once I am sure I’m safe, I go about my business. Tonight, heavy breaths lure me towards a partially opened door. I walk slowly across the carpet until I reach it.
She is here and she is alone. She lies in the bed, oblivious to my presence, on her back and deep in slumber. Her throat makes a cackling sound as she breathes in and out. It reminds me of a death rattle, something I have heard – and instigated – many times.
Without warning, the outdoor intruder lights switch on and illuminate the room’s interior more brightly. I glare at her, expecting the lustre to wake her up, but she doesn’t so much as twitch. Through the window I spot a vixen with her cub, foraging around for food in the flowerbeds. And here inside, I see this woman clearly. She is like my mother, a
pretty woman who hides an ugly heart. Her looks will soon fade and her soul will only grow more grotesque. But my intervention can stop that.
Her neck is slender and I instinctively move my hands towards it, hovering so close to her skin that I can feel the heat she radiates on the palms of my hands. I wonder how much pressure I would have to exert to rupture her windpipe and choke her to death. Only a fraction, I think. My skills are well honed.
She has pushed the duvet down to below her waist, and I can clearly make out the rise and fall of her swollen, pregnant belly under her T-shirt as she inhales and exhales. My hands move towards it, gradually drawing closer until finally, they are resting on it. She doesn’t stir as my skin touches hers.
They rest upon a section above her navel. It’s firm to the touch and I assume that, under the surface, her unborn child’s back is pressed against it. It sleeps like its mother, unaware of my presence, oblivious to the danger it faces. Now I contemplate the strength needed to push a blade into her doughy flesh and the depth required to penetrate the womb. I imagine the warmth of her wound against my cool skin as I slice her open, push my hands inside her, feeling my way around until I can locate and pull out its contents. I have never taken an unborn before, but for her, I am willing to make an exception. The innocent need protecting, no matter the age.
Now I am standing over her, my face directly above hers, my mouth next to her nose. I gently exhale so that she breathes me in and I become the oxygen that fills up her lungs and feeds her baby. Then I open my mouth and allow the thinnest line of silvery saliva to drip from my mouth, thread-like, and on to hers. She unconsciously runs her tongue over her bottom lip and I am inside her.
Experience has taught me never to outstay my welcome, so I begin making my way out of the room as
slowly as I entered it. After only a few steps, the garden lights extinguish. I pause and peer back into the shadows, taking one last look at the woman who is now responsible for the house that made me. ‘I’ll come by again soon, Mia,’ I whisper.
