Page 138 of The Home Grown
Hard and furious.
Urgent.
It’s like someone’s trying to break in.
At first, I think it’s part of my dream; clear and realistic—just like the sleep-sex, except I can feel the banging vibrating through the walls of my tiny house.
I blink several times, trying to force myself to wake fully, urging the brain-fog to clear when I catch the sound again.
Then I hear his voice. Rasped and ragged. Like he’s gasping for air.
I bolt upright in bed, my heart pounding so hard I can hear my pulse. I throw the covers off my legs before scrambling for my dressing gown.
Bang-bang-bang.
I leap towards the window and open the curtains, trying to peer down to the street below, but I can’t see. I need more leverage.
Bang-bang-bang.
The sash window opens with relative ease—which is odd considering it seems to be jammed every other time I need to open it—and I poke my head out.
It’s him, his hand balled into a fist as he pounds on my front door, clearly not giving any consideration to the neighbours—though I don’t know what time it is.
“Mike? What the hell are you doing?” I yell.
He takes a few moments to realise I’m shouting from an upstairs window. He backs away from the door before craning his neck upwards.
“Kitch—I need to talk to you,” he says. “Can you let me in?”
I want to tell him to leave me alone. I want to tell him to go back toher. But I can’t. There’s something about the way his voice shakes. Something about the urgency and desperation.
He’s distressed.
He’s in need.
He steps back further towards the road, his body illuminated against the streetlights in an eerie glow. An odd shine on his shirt has me squinting, trying to make out what’s covering his chest. Dark patches of colour, contrasting against the white.
Wet and shiny.
I swallow down a wave of nausea.
I think I know what it is—or what it looks like, at least.
“I’ll be right down,” I say, sliding the window closed and rushing down the stairs.
He stumbles in as I open the door, and the full impact of the blood hits me, knocking the air from my lungs.
Splotches of rusty brown cover his shirt, and a faint, metallic smell lingers in the air, filling my mouth as I gasp for air.
“Blood,” I say, gaping at him. “Oh my—Mike, are you bleeding?”
He stares at me for a moment before looking down at his chest. “Me? No, I’m … fine. It’s not my blood, don’t worry.”
His tone is airy, but his eyes are heavy, drooping closed—like he’s exhausted.
“Then whose blood is it?” I say, my voice elevating in both pitch and speed.
“Rochelle’s.”
