It’s Sunday. A day for sleeping late. A day for not worrying about getting up. Or meetings. A day for no alarms save the morning sun peeking past my shades.
Sunday is the kind of day night owls with day jobs love. At least this night owl. It’s one of two days when I get enough sleep.
I love Sundays.
I lay there, scrunched into my covers.
Spring is fighting with winter, but the old lady still has a grip on the outside. It was enough to make luxuriating alone in bed as long as possible that extra bit of delicious. I feel warm. And safe. It’s perfect.
I’m staring at the ceiling when I hear it.
Whispered in my ear. Right next to me. Loud, yet intimate. A male whisper. I could almost feel the breath from the words against my skin.
I whip my head to the left, but of course there’s no one there.
I freeze. Other than my darting eyeballs, I dare not move. I don’t see anything, don’t hear anything. But the walls lean in close. The pleasant chill in the air turns clammy. The morning light that seemed so welcoming moments ago pushes ineffectively into the room, feeble and overcast. My blankets are no protection no matter how much I sink into the bed.
I want to scream.