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9
No Quick Death
<p>I don’t remember much about the night I was meant to die.</p><p>It’s funny how the mind can block out the memories it no longer wants to store, you must know that. But if I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds of that night in May. The howl of an unseasonably cold wind, the rattle of a nearby window, the rasp of the sea against shingle in the distance.</p><p>It was also raining. I remember that much, because the thin scratch of water against glass is still vivid in my head. For a minute it was hypnotic. For a minute it disguised the sound of his footsteps outside, soles against flagstone in slow determined steps.</p><p>The footsteps were right outside the house now, and the faint metallic grumble of a key being pushed into the lock echoed up the stairs. I heard the front door creak open. Chilled air seeped through the cracks in the window pane and pinched my nostrils shut. I was even lying like a mummy, trembling fingers tucked under my thighs, as heavy and immobile as if they were dead weights, anchoring me to the bed.</p><p>A soft push of wood against carpet as the door opened. Every instinct in my body told me to leap out of the bed and run, but I had to wait and see if he would do this. My heart was hammering out of my chest, my limbs felt frozen with fear, my body retreating into a menacing shadow.A hand pressed against my mouth, its touch cold and alien against my dry, puckered lips. My eyes opened, and I could see a face only inches from mine. I was desperate to read his expression, to know what he was thinking.</p><p>I hoped he'd kill me quickly.</p>
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