The Fear

Indagari can not be alone any more. The fear is there. It is a small thing, like a wizened child. It crouches on furniture and lurks behind curtains. It touches things: examining them, sniffing them, sometimes quietly tasting them. It is always quiet, apart from the furtive rustling, and never in the way. Indagari acknowledges its discretion, but the way it lingers is oppressive and eventually, chilling. Indagari only works out why that is after a few days. A mirror betrays the fear in the act of reaching when Indagari's back is turned, touching a shoulder-blade, and softly insinuating surprisingly betaloned wizened fingers deep into Indagari's back. Indagari feels a new coldness, a new sickness, as the fingers draw back a tiny sliver of heart which the fear nibbles at like a mouse at a corncob, its thin-lipped mouth scarlet with Indagari's stolen heart-blood.

The fear rides on Indagari's shoulders from room to room and sleeps on the pillow at night. Its prurience when Indagari is in the toilet or shower is disturbing.

The fear is an unpleasant companion, but for Indagari, now, it is better than the silence.