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Authors: Elizabeth Davies
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blow and began to fall, fighting to stay on my feet. I knew once I was on the floor I would be totally at his mercy again, and mercy was not a virtue I could expect from Wil.
I still had the knife in my hand and I used it again, without consideration, my one thought was self-preservation. It was either him or me. I slashed at the only part of him within easy reach – his upper thigh. The serrated edge parted his flesh with ease, cutting through tendon, muscle and gristle. Blood spurted from the wound in steady squirts, more blood than I could believe possible. I knew I had severed a major artery.
He dropped to the floor, hands clamped around his leg just above the wound.
‘Help me,’ he cried, but I did nothing, watching in horror as his life force pulsed out of him, the pressure of his fingers not enough to stem the flow.
My vision blurred and faded once more and I fought to stay conscious. I was still frantically trying to draw breath through my injured throat, and that, combined with the realisation of what I had just done, was pushing me towards oblivion.
I couldn’t faint: I couldn’t. I needed to hold it together long enough to ensure Wilfred was no further threat. Even fatally wounded he could still make a last ditch attempt to kill me; he had nothing left to lose.
He was weakening rapidly. His skin was paler by the second and his breathing was becoming more and more laboured as his body tried to use what little blood still left in it to keep his heart beating. The pool of red, sticky liquid underneath him had grown alarmingly, and the blood was no longer spurting out of the wound but had slowed to a steady trickle. His eyes, previously wide and staring, rolled back in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness.
I turned my face from him so I didn’t have to witness his dying, but I couldn’t escape the blood. It was splashed over the dresser and the wall. I was covered in it, wet and gleaming and viscous, made almost black by the coming night. The smell of it made my stomach heave.
There was a last gasping gurgle as Wilfred took his final breath, then a hideous silence.
I had killed a man.
When Roman burst through the door, his eyes lit with a dark and desperate hunger, and an even darker fear when he saw the charnel house that was once a kitchen, his nostrils flaring at the copper-rich scent of fresh blood and lips drawn back to reveal startlingly white canines, I embraced the faintest of tugs and retreated with relief to my own time.
Chapter 5
I jerked awake, as a muscle spasm brought me back to full consciousness. My leg twitched again and I moved restlessly in the bed.
My mouth was dry, so very, very dry, and I tried to sit up with half open eyes and reach for the glass of water which always sat on my bedside table, but my body was distinctly unresponsive. My hand hurt, so I raised it to my face and saw the canula in the back of it. I knew all about canulas.
For one disconcerting moment , I thought I must be back in hospital, enduring another gruelling round of chemotherapy, then my brain processed what my eyes were seeing and I understood I was in my own bed (a borrowed hospital one actually), in my own room (again, not really my room, but the dining room converted for my use because of my difficulty in climbing stairs) and my mother was slumped in one of the recliners that normally lived in the sitting room and was now wedged into a corner.
It was early morning, the dawn chorus in full flow in spite of it being only March. In the soft morning light , I caught a glimpse of how my mother would look in old age – an old age I wouldn’t live to see. Her skin was pallid with exhaustion, and even in sleep the lines on her face were prominent. I noticed the grey that was coming through her usually coloured hair, and my guilt was overwhelming. She was neglecting herself to care for me, driving her body and mind to their limits in order to deal with the last weeks of a terminally ill
I still had the knife in my hand and I used it again, without consideration, my one thought was self-preservation. It was either him or me. I slashed at the only part of him within easy reach – his upper thigh. The serrated edge parted his flesh with ease, cutting through tendon, muscle and gristle. Blood spurted from the wound in steady squirts, more blood than I could believe possible. I knew I had severed a major artery.
He dropped to the floor, hands clamped around his leg just above the wound.
‘Help me,’ he cried, but I did nothing, watching in horror as his life force pulsed out of him, the pressure of his fingers not enough to stem the flow.
My vision blurred and faded once more and I fought to stay conscious. I was still frantically trying to draw breath through my injured throat, and that, combined with the realisation of what I had just done, was pushing me towards oblivion.
I couldn’t faint: I couldn’t. I needed to hold it together long enough to ensure Wilfred was no further threat. Even fatally wounded he could still make a last ditch attempt to kill me; he had nothing left to lose.
He was weakening rapidly. His skin was paler by the second and his breathing was becoming more and more laboured as his body tried to use what little blood still left in it to keep his heart beating. The pool of red, sticky liquid underneath him had grown alarmingly, and the blood was no longer spurting out of the wound but had slowed to a steady trickle. His eyes, previously wide and staring, rolled back in his head and he slipped into unconsciousness.
I turned my face from him so I didn’t have to witness his dying, but I couldn’t escape the blood. It was splashed over the dresser and the wall. I was covered in it, wet and gleaming and viscous, made almost black by the coming night. The smell of it made my stomach heave.
There was a last gasping gurgle as Wilfred took his final breath, then a hideous silence.
I had killed a man.
When Roman burst through the door, his eyes lit with a dark and desperate hunger, and an even darker fear when he saw the charnel house that was once a kitchen, his nostrils flaring at the copper-rich scent of fresh blood and lips drawn back to reveal startlingly white canines, I embraced the faintest of tugs and retreated with relief to my own time.
Chapter 5
I jerked awake, as a muscle spasm brought me back to full consciousness. My leg twitched again and I moved restlessly in the bed.
My mouth was dry, so very, very dry, and I tried to sit up with half open eyes and reach for the glass of water which always sat on my bedside table, but my body was distinctly unresponsive. My hand hurt, so I raised it to my face and saw the canula in the back of it. I knew all about canulas.
For one disconcerting moment , I thought I must be back in hospital, enduring another gruelling round of chemotherapy, then my brain processed what my eyes were seeing and I understood I was in my own bed (a borrowed hospital one actually), in my own room (again, not really my room, but the dining room converted for my use because of my difficulty in climbing stairs) and my mother was slumped in one of the recliners that normally lived in the sitting room and was now wedged into a corner.
It was early morning, the dawn chorus in full flow in spite of it being only March. In the soft morning light , I caught a glimpse of how my mother would look in old age – an old age I wouldn’t live to see. Her skin was pallid with exhaustion, and even in sleep the lines on her face were prominent. I noticed the grey that was coming through her usually coloured hair, and my guilt was overwhelming. She was neglecting herself to care for me, driving her body and mind to their limits in order to deal with the last weeks of a terminally ill
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