Gone eleven. Twelve, maybe.
I sip quietly on my straw,
Crinkling the plastic wrapper in
My coat pocket.
The late winter's night nips and bites
At my arms, and I bundle up
Against the cold.
More than an hour from home, and soon
The street-lamps would flicker off, and
Cloak me in night.
As I pass along the street, down
To the roadside, I take along
Shadows wrapping their frigid arms
Around my shoulders, comforting
My troubled steps;
But then, as I turned the corner,
I was met with a wall of shade
And stopped quickly.
Among the shadows, something turns,
And we lock eyes in the darkness.
Ten long seconds.
Or, it felt to me, ten long years.
I was locked in the gaze of a
Not a cat. Couldn't be a fox.
Strangely human, and yet still like
A beast - feral.
Terror hits me like a bullet.
I spin around and make quick tracks,
Back down to the roadside, clapping
My shoes against the pavement, tears
Down my face by the time I was
Finally home. Lights on. Door locked.
Respite - silence.
I saw him - the Feral Man - in
My dreams. Couldn't run away there.
Cold and gentle,
He ate chunks of me under the
Pale street-lights. Squirming under the
I writhed free of my own nightmare,
Woke up crying, screaming - streaming.
Hot blood run cold.
The night I realised we are all
Still feral, more so than our pests,
Objects of lust.
I turned to wash the tears from my
Face, and caught a glimpse of the cold
Two cold, lifeless eyes, burning bright.
Looking right at me. Feral eyes.
The smell of tears.
Gone five. Six, maybe.
Tarmac boils under
The freezing moon.