Survival

       A persistent clattering sound rends the damp morning air.    Concealed in my dark, humid hide I shrink from the relentless searching light:   I know too well the consequences of revealing my position.  

            The nameless dread which has haunted my fitful sleep seems now tangibly oppressive.    My limbs are heavy and incapable of movement and I hold my breath in fearful anticipation.   I know that discovery is certain:   the same scenario is played out in inexorable diurnal cycles, and I am forced to bow to the inevitable.    Now I know the terror of the hunted animal, the fox, badger or rabbit cowering in its burrow and listening in trembling anticipation for the footsteps and voice of Man.   The dreaded words are snapped out:

            “YOU’LL  HAVE  TO  GET  UP  NOW!     It’s eight o’clock”

            My husband bangs down the life-saving cup of tea and departs;   he has little patience with my reluctant awakenings and is far from New Man.   However, at the prospect of those first revitalising sips of scalding tea slipping down the throat and flowing comfortingly to the extremities of the body, I can forgive him anything.

            Slowly I become aware that the said extremities actually belong to me and I resign myself to the fact that another day has to be confronted.    Still the limbs refuse to move and I fear that a dreadful transformation has taken place during the long night hours.  Some transmutation of matter, doubtless invoked by the Powers of Darkness, has changed my human form – the flesh has become stone - and I am doomed forever to be a mind trapped in a useless body.  But I can move my eyes.

            The relentless clattering noise starts up again.    

             “Eight fifteen” smirks the alarm clock as I reluctantly peep out.     I hate the insolent expression on its face.

            “Just wait,” I tell it, “it’s a bucket of water for you if I ever get out of here.” 

            It grins back, knowing that it is safe for a good quarter of an hour.   I pull the covers over my head and try to pretend that this is not happening.

            At this point I feel an all-pervading sense of peace and I can reflect with equanimity on my fate:  if I am no longer human then I am equal to the situation and can contemplate a life spent in cerebral activity alone.    However, I am gradually able to will the reluctant limbs to move so that I can prise myself from the bed, down the still warm tea and grope my way to the bathroom.    A hot flannel held to the face softens the stony set of the features, and I steel myself to look in the mirror.   The sight revealed to my anxious, searching stare is not pleasant.    A white death-mask, expressionless apart from the wild, bloodshot eyes, confronts me.    It is a shock, but nonetheless I rejoice: for the face, ugly and contorted though it appears, is unmistakably human.   I know that from this point on things are going to get better.

            I return to the bedroom with (almost) a spring in my step.  Now for that alarm clock.  I catch sight of it attempting to hide behind a large box of talcum powder:  it now looks contrite and chastened. I ponder on which of the innumerable tortures I have devised for it I shall select this morning. I smile at it grimly and leave the decision until after dressing. Its ticks are by turns slow and drawn out, then too rapid:  I revel in its suffering.  Revenge is indeed sweet.

             My limbs are now moving freely and responding almost immediately to the instructions from the brain. I dress slowly, deliberating over the choice of each garment.   I wish to make it quite plain to the agents of the Powers of Darkness that I am now back in control.  I also wish to make this plain to the alarm clock.   I turn and stare at it with a mixture of contempt and pity – I am the survivor, it now the cringing supplicant.    With a manic grin I grab it and shake it violently - I am gratified by its fearful trembling accompanied by the wild clattering of its bell.   I cackle triumphantly.

          “What the hell are you doing?”  shouts the voice of Man from below.   “If you’re not ready now I’m going without you.”

            The spell is broken.   Reality has intruded.   Pointless to try to explain the titanic battle which has just been won:   he wouldn’t understand.   

            Nobody would understand.

            Except the alarm clock. 

            I eye it ruefully and return it to its usual place.    I nod to it with the grudging respect reserved for old adversaries;   between us but one unspoken thought –

            “Same time tomorrow?”