Half Life

HALF LIFE

Why does my life have to be continuously disrupted?  Admittedly it
’
s a half life but it
’
s all mine nevertheless.

Why do these awful people keep tramping through my house, filling it with their tasteless articles and letting their brats run about, scuffing the polished floorboards?  The last lot had been a loud obnoxious family, overweight and tasteless.  Well I soon saw them off.  They
’
d cleared out quick smart when I
’
d made my displeasure known.  I designed Briar House myself exactly one hundred and thirty one years ago.  It
’
s an elegant five bedroomed detached cottage with its own private beach.  I
’
ve had it to myself for a blissful few months but now it
’
s happening again.  Strange men are bringing strange furniture into
my
house.  It
’
s so damn rude it makes my blood boil.

One of the sweaty removal men carefully puts a footstool down in a corner of the sitting room, well out of harm
’
s way.  When he leaves I place it right in the doorway.  That will teach them all to invade my space without my permission.

When one of the men returns carrying a box he trips over the stool and the box falls from his hands, sending the contents scattering across the floor.

Alerted by the noise, the rest of the men race into the room and an argument breaks out.  Eventually the leader calms things down, the dropped items are retrieved, some of which are broken and they all return to the task.  I enjoy toying with them, tugging at their overalls and hair and enveloping them in coldness.  They get more and more anxious and keep looking around fearfully until they
’
re practically running in and out of the house dumping items unceremoniously, the big girls.

The sound of one of those moving metal beasts draws my attention to the window.  I look outside to see a woman clamber out.  This must be the new owner.  I decide to wait behind the door to give her a nasty surprise, let her know who she
’
s dealing with straight away.

She steps inside and I prepare to shove her backwards but when I find myself staring into the saddest pair of hazel eyes I can no longer find the will to do the deed.  I saw much grief and tragedy in my real life, which still haunts me even now and I see the same pain reflected here.  Those eyes fix on me and for one terrible moment I think I
’
ve been seen but that
’
s not possible, not unless I will it.  Then one of the burly removal men steps forward looking rather sheepish and begins to talk, gesturing at the items that broke; a vase and a couple of photograph frames.  Fury joins the pain etched on her face and she starts to shout.  The big man wilts beneath the anger of this slender woman with the big sad eyes and long light brown hair.

The big man placates her with soft words and eventually she calms down.  While they continue with their work she scoops up one of the broken photograph frames and retreats upstairs.  Curious, I follow.

She goes up to the master bedroom that I used to sleep in every night, so long ago.  This causes me to frown. 

“
Trespasser,
”
I hiss quietly.

Startled by the sound she looks up but seeing nothing she shrugs and perches on the edge of the bed the removal men put there and pulls a white wicker bin towards her.  Gingerly she picks the broken glass out of the photograph frame and drops it into the bin.  A sliver of glass bites into her skin and after removing it she sucks the tip of her finger.

Tentatively I take a step into the room to try and sneak a peek at the photograph.  It shows her with a strong looking man with dark blond hair and sly blue eyes.  I don
’
t like him on sight.  Clearly he believes he is God
’
s gift.  In the photograph his arm is wrapped around her and her eyes are full of laughter.  I watch as she scowls at the image of the man then dumps the whole lot in the bin, frame and all.  Tears stand out in her eyes and she wipes them away angrily before heading back downstairs.  Just before I follow I glance at the set of double doors leading out onto the balcony, the scene of my death and I shiver.

Downstairs the removal men have finished so she pays them and thankfully they depart.  She seems relieved to be alone.  I follow her like a curious puppy into the kitchen where she prepares herself a sandwich and a large glass of white wine before settling down in front of the large black square box, which I
’
ve recently learnt is called a television.  Whereas the previous residents stared at it compulsively she hardly sees it as she chews her sandwich absently.  She takes just a couple of mouthfuls before putting it aside and picks up the wine instead.  Depression and rage hang about her like a shroud, enveloping her in black folds and I know she has suffered.  Normally I choose this moment, just when the new arrivals are starting to relax to begin my torments.  I usually go upstairs and start banging about and moving things around.  The sooner they get scared the sooner they leave but I simply can
’
t find it in myself to start torturing this poor creature who is clearly anguished.  I
’
m not malicious, I don
’
t enjoy upsetting people.  I just want
my
house to myself.

After finishing off the glass of wine she falls asleep on the couch.  The glass slips from her fingers and I catch it before it hits the floor and return it safely to the kitchen.

I regard her sleeping form from the doorway.  She looks so serene in sleep, the frown smoothing out to reveal a very pretty face.  I decide to give her some peace and quiet for one night.

She begins to writhe in her sleep, clearly in the grip of  a nightmare and I kneel beside her and put a hand to her forehead.  Instantly the murmuring stops and she sinks into oblivion.  It
’
s so long since I
’
ve had physical contact with any living thing, other than when I
’
m prodding or poking someone in an effort to scare them but that isn
’
t my intention now.  She feels warm but that is no surprise because I am constantly cold.  It is so soothing I stay by her side for hours.  I wonder what her name is?  Something delicate and feminine, perhaps a flower?  Rose or Lily, or maybe even Primrose?  I dismiss the latter as too twee.

The sun comes up but she sleeps on and on.  When I judge it to be mid morning there is a knock at the front door.  She sits bolt upright, startling me and I retreat to the kitchen doorway to watch as she staggers to the door bleary-eyed and hair tousled.  She pulls it open to reveal a woman of her own age with blond hair and gaudily painted lips clutching a pot plant.

“
Sally,
”
she smiles, embracing the visitor.

I wait for Sally to say her name back but she doesn
’
t.

“
Did I wake you?
”

“
Yeah, I fell asleep on the couch last night,
”
she yawns, stretching. 
“
Come on in.
”

Sally steps inside and holds out the plant. 
“
I got you this as a moving-in present.
”

“
Thanks,
”
she says, accepting it. 
“
Brew?
”

“
Coffee please.
”

While she goes into the kitchen clutching the plant, Sally wanders around the living room, examining it.

“
So how are you settling in?
”
calls Sally.

“
Fine,
”
the trespasser calls back. 
“
The idiot removal men dropped a box and broke a few things but other than that the move went smoothly.
”

I can see her pouring hot water into the mugs.  Although her tone is cheerful her face is tight with pain.

“
Any regrets?
”

“
No.  I just had to get away from the city,
”
she says as she returns to the sitting room clutching two steaming mugs.  She places them on the coffee table before the couch and sits beside Sally.  Dammit I
’
ve learnt the friend
’
s name but not hers.

“
So you feel better being here in the country?
”
says Sally.

“
Much better.  I need the peace and quiet.
”

“
Did you see Michael before you left?
”

Her eyes sweep down to her hands, the pain in them intensifying. 
“
Oh yes, he took the opportunity to gloat.
”

“
It
’
s outrageous the way he
’
s treated you and he
’
s got away with it.  There must be some law against it?
”

“
I
’
ve fought him through the courts and lost.  Everyone at work backed him up, they were frightened of losing their jobs too.  He
’
s made way for his younger model and I just have to live with that.
”

“
So you lost your home, fianc
é
and job while he gets everything.  It
’
s so wrong,
”
seethes Sally.

So that
’
s what happened.  This Michael, who I take to be the blond man in the photograph pushed her out of her old life.  Small wonder she
’
s angry.

“
So what are you going to do now?
”
says Sally, sinking back into the couch with her cup of coffee.

“
I
’
m taking some time out to try and put myself back together.  I can afford a few months off work.
”

“
But what work will you do?  The only newspaper around here is the local one, all coffee mornings and jumble sales.  Hardly cutting edge reporting.
”

“
I
’
ve spent my entire life concentrating on my career and look where its got me?  I
’
m thirty six and I sleep alone every night and live off takeaways.  Maybe it
’
s time I concentrated on other areas of my life?
”

“
There
’
s even fewer men around here than jobs.  They
’
re either over seventy or married.
”

“
I don
’
t necessarily mean a man.  I might join some of the local groups and I can do other things.  I worked in pubs and shops to put myself through university.
”

Sally looks horrified. 
“
Just eight months ago you were reporting from Afghanistan.  You
’
ve worked in war zones, you
’
ve interviewed politicians, royalty and decorated soldiers.  I don
’
t think you
’
d be very fulfilled pulling pints in the Lamb and Flag.
”

“
Something will come up.
”

“
I
’
m sure it will.  You look better than the last time I saw you.
”

“
Maybe that
’
s because I got a full night
’
s sleep last night for the first time in months.
”

Sally looks incredulous. 
“
You slept well here, in the most haunted house in the village?
”

“
I
’
ve seen no evidence of that,
”
she replies sceptically. 
“
In fact there
’
s a really nice feeling to this house.  I fell asleep on the couch and I felt safe and almost
…
cared for.
”

“
So nothing weird has happened then?
”

“
Sorry to disappoint but nothing at all.  The removal man who dropped a box of my things tried to make out that he tripped over a footstool that had mysteriously moved on its own but I think he was just trying to make an excuse for his clumsiness.  I gave him what for,  I can tell you.
”