Thief

         My pen scratched away on the dirty white paper. My desk was a shambles – books, curios, dozens of pens scattered by some invisible flood, a (stopped) clock and a musical money box (the musical part had been lost for 2 years and 4 months now).
         
         I glanced at my (functioning) watch – 11:43. Hmm. Too early to sleep, but too late to venture from my room. A strange hour, when ideas blossom beautifully like flowers, before they wither in the grey dawn. Shifting in my chair, I rested my hand on the table and –
         
         Moaned? I sat up sharply. Clearly my voice had come out louder than I had expected. The bottle on the shelf was only half-full – so that couldn’t be it, could it?
         
         A sudden thumping above me, rapidly increasing then decreasing. A familiar fear, one that always plunged my mind into a sewer of my subconscious filth, frothing away and leaving brown stains on my imagination. Lately those stains had been climbing higher, despite the disinfectant. Should I knock knock knock? That wasn’t me. How could it have been? I am here, in my chair in my room in my house in my zombie city.
         
         I knock knock knock again. That wasn’t me! My hand trembles but it doesn’t knock. The blue veins bulge out at me like tree roots, trying to come up through the pavement. I count the books on my shelf. One, two, three, knock knock knock four. Three, four. After three comes four. Orange, then blue. No problems.
         
         My hands have stopped trembling. Knock knock knock I carefully manoeuvre the window open and peer out into the black. The cool wind dries my throat. I lick my lips. The window closes behind me. I scream. I scratch my head. Plaster falls from the ledge above, dry white flaky crumbs I must talk to the janitor about it.
         
         Pressing my face against the cool (mmm) glass I squint through the sudden fog A blob sits at my desk, writing. It is wearing my clothes. A burglar! He turns. He has stolen my shirt, I observe. But the fog obscures his features, turning them the colour of curdled milk. I must pick up more milk… I never noticed how high up my room is before. Here I can see the skyline straight ahead, and lights below like glowing crumbs on my kitchen floor. I knock knock knock on the glass. The blob turns, it presses the milk against the fog. It is a burglar.
         
         It has stolen my face.

*

         I wipe my coat and sit down again. The knocking has stopped. I write.