The Attic

Sixteen

He woke up in a sweat just before the noise, as if he were supposed to hear it fully awake.

            It was like it was happening again, exactly as before—the crashing, crunching noise, the footfall, and finally the chilling realization that someone was there, inside the house.

            This time Paul woke up too, and he eyed John with a bug-eyed expression. John put a finger to his lips and went over to the phone they had in the bedroom. He lifted it and started to dial for the police to come, but no sound came from the phone.

            Struck with a sudden realization, he tried to flick on the lights, but nothing happened either.

            “A power outage!” John whispered. “What are the odds of a power outage, right here, right now, while—“

            Paul clamped a hand over John’s mouth. “Shut up!” he hissed. He scanned the room for anything that might help to defend them against the intruder, and found only a heavy volume on a shelf.

            He picked it up and neared his ear to the slight opening of the door.

            “He’s coming,” Paul breathed. A slight trickle of sweat went down his temple. His heartbeat was choking him, closing off his throat as the steps got nearer.

            The door opened and Paul hit on what seemed to be the person’s head with as much force as pure fear could muster. The intruder placed a hand on a bruised forehead and swung blindly out into the confusion of the dark room, managing to find Paul.

            Paul’s bad arm twisted backwards and he let out a pained groan, holding his shoulder. A second later, there was a horrible creaking sound. “Look out!” John shouted, but Paul was too slow to react.

            The bed fell on them both.

            “Paul! Paul?” John dove down.

            “I’m fine,” he said between gritted teeth. “Take care of him!”

            The attacker was still trapped under the heavy bed frame. John looked at him. He was a nobody. He’d never seen him in his life.

            Pale, roundish green eyes, a mop of fine brown hair, and a thin, delicate face. With a slight look of regret John hit him with the book on the head forcefully until his eyes rolled backward.

            John managed to heave the bed off of the two. Paul tried to prop himself up on his good shoulder, but he fell back shakily. The other arm was hanging at an odd angle.

            “Who is he?” Paul managed, cradling his shoulder.

            “No one,” John said shortly.

            He dragged the unconscious—hopefully only unconscious, John thought—body out of the room and down the hall. A bitter gust of wind forced its way into the house when John opened the door. He pushed the man a few feet further until he was completely outside. It was snowing and already the face was being blanketed in little diamondlike crystals, and a fuzzy coating of white.

            John closed the door.

            Without a word, he picked up a box of matches and threw a lit one into the fireplace. The last of a log was still in there, and a small fire tentatively started up, dark orange licking the ash and bark.

            He slumped onto the couch and started at the fire, seemingly mesmerized. The light reflected off of his glasses and made them seem like solid circles of that same peculiar orange hue. Paul sat down next to him, not quite touching him.

            He remembered that not a week ago John had been willing to start up where they’d left off years ago again. On principle, he’d said no, but living with John, everything was coming back. He’d been forced to re-learn his face, the exact way his eyes flashed, his voice lilted, all the little details that had been lost as time went on.

            John looked straight ahead, lost to the world. Paul wondered whether he’d lost his one chance, and that now their destinies were headed opposite directions again. Fate, he reflected, lost in thought as well.