Come With Me

This is a true story, so don't get upset when you read it. It was
written by a friend of a friend, who i have called 'Simon', and it was
delivered to me by his ex-girlfriend, who i have named 'Claire', and
who - while being very courteous and affectionate - I hope never, EVER
to see again.

COME WITH ME

By Simon Childe

I've always found the first line of a story easy to write. The first
few paragraphs glide by without much effort.

This story starts, however, in the desert of the second page. I was sat
in front of a hot PC, a bottle of whisky on my left, a cold cup of
coffee on my right, trapped like a deer in the glare of the
clinically-blank pages ahead of me. I read my opening lines again. And
again. And again. And gave up. A potentially good story about a man
covering up his debts and cheating his friends in the process blossomed
and died before my burning eyes. I held my finger on the backspace key.
The words, the ideas, even the passions that had spawned them were
gone.

I was tired. I hadn't been sleeping and I had filled the gap with
alcohol. I drank a little more whisky, about a quarter of a bottle, and
instead of bringing forth crazy ideas or inducing a state of calm in
which I could write without inhibitions, I felt exhausted and I closed
my eyes while I thought of ... the ... next ... story ...

... I dreamt of drowning. At first I could breathe underwater, but as
soon as I realised the trick, fear snatched the talent from my lungs. I
splashed and spluttered in the denim blue water and I felt the approach
of an enormous shadow, which my mind called a shark. It bit me in half
and I woke ...

... screaming, I looked at my PC screensaver, my pseudonym of Simon
Childe, swirling around in black space. I hit the space key and saw
words typed across the otherwise blank page:

I am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I
am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I am here I
am here I am here I am here I am here I am

---

It was eight o' clock in the evening and I was an hour late for a date.
Glad to get out of the flat, I had a swig of whisky, pulled on a jacket
and left. Dana was waiting outside the restaurant looking sour.

"Sorry I'm late," I said.

"It's alright," she said.

This isn't on. Who do you think you are?

"Why didn't you wait at the table?" I asked.

I see, so it's my fault I'm freezing and look like an idiot?

"It's booked in your name," she smiled.

By sheer fluke we had the best table in the restaurant, but our
exchange could have been much better. I admit I was distracted; and I
could tell she was beginning to regret coming and that she wanted me to
know it. That pissed me off - that she couldn't even to pretend to have
a nice time, which was what I was doing.

When our starters arrived I was relieved, because our full mouths would
give us an excuse not to talk. I wondered how long I could make an
avocado last while Dana raised her soup spoon and gazed into her
bowl.

I had only come here on the breeze of hope that we might end up in bed
together by the end of the evening. It was still a possibility, but I
would have to convince her I liked her, even loved her, which would
require a greater deception on my part than I felt capable of.

And then there was the significant matter of my noisy flat. Perhaps we
could go ... back to hers ...

... "What's wrong?" I asked.

She was very shaky, even when I got her outside.

"Another time?" I said to be polite.

She nodded and I took her home in a cab, which I then took back to my
flat, alone.

She told me, after extensive coaxing, that she had looked into her bowl
of soup and had seen her reflection very clearly caught in it. She had
then realised that it wasn't her reflection at all, that this face had
short, blonde hair, and light eyes. And it had stuck its tongue out at
her - piercing the surface of the soup, splashing her dress in the
process.

Then she told me to ignore her, that she was tired and she wanted to
lie down. Alone, she said.

Fine.

---

Home, and as I walked past the pool table, the cue ball rolled across
the table and sunk in the corner pocket nearest me. I looked around,
but saw nothing out of the ordinary. I muttered nervously to myself and
then out of the kitchen came my ex-girlfriend, Claire.

I could see her bone through her skin. There was a hole in her
cheek.

I fell into my computer seat.

She limped towards me, accidentally knocking things over as she
stumbled.

I knew this was really happening, because it had happened before. Once
as I was arriving - and then promptly leaving - with a girlfriend. I
had convinced myself it hadn't happened, that I was imagining it,
because of guilt, but here it was again.

Twice I had seen her over my shoulder in the kitchen. Again I told
myself I was hallucinating. Lack of sleep, I told myself.

And I often imagined I saw her reflected in my computer screen. Now she
was as she had appeared then, wearing the white dress she was buried
in.

I knew this was really happening, because I could hear myself screaming
and in my dreams my attempts to yell were in vain.

I had only gone out with her for two weeks. I went to the funeral,
although no-one had known who I was. I had declined to look inside the
casket. Now I had no choice.

Her blue eyes were fixed on me. They sparkled, while the rest of her
was all decay. When she was only six feet from me she raised a finger
to her lips.

"Shhhhhh."

She was rotten and stank of death.

"You promised," she said. "Come with me now, into the kitchen," she
threw a backward glance. "You're mine. You promised. I want you. I need
you. And if necessary, I'll k-"

- The doorbell went and she was gone.

Ed was at the door. He came in and made me a drink.

I told him what had happened. And then he left - in a hurry. He
suggested I do the same, but I forced myself to stand firm. I'm a free
spirit.

What's life when it's spent on the run?

I also forced myself to face the empty screen and I filled it with
this.

Claire even left her signature in it while I went to make coffee, which
makes the story whole - she gave the story its title.

It's an hour and a half later and she's here now. Watching me. Waiting.
She says she is tired of both, and I kn