In bleary half-sleep, I misunderstood the dark figure in the doorway to be my caretaker. The hall light fell in behind him, and I drew the purple crocheted blanket to my cheek and murmured soft questions. Where is she? When will she be back? Okay. I sank back into dreams like her arms.
I woke the second time to something inhuman. The dark was a veil that obscured the shape of his mouth but his eyes, dull and sunken, held me down as he whispered nightmares and tightened knots around my tiny wrists and tore at slight hips beneath my nightgown. I screamed like my voice had claws to tear out his eyes. I kicked with twig legs. His fingernail probed sharp inside me.
Savage was the instrument that performed such vulgar vivisections.
The woman at the bottom of the stairs looked every bit like my mother but for those unforgiving gashes and searching eyes. She grasped my shoulders and mouthed convoluted memories, misplaced faces, fragments of dreams. She pulled torn clothes across her broken body.
Hardly awake, we followed fluorescent lights down the sterile hallway. I reached absently for her comforting arm: she was no longer with me. The dark figure stood in the doorway. She’s gone for a walk. She’ll be back later. Those dull, sunken eyes followed me as I pushed past him into the darkness.
We woke in the morning locked out of our house.
The synchrobloggers are writing about encounters with aliens.