Lavender and Cotton

Lavender and Cotton

Lavender and Cotton 

The wind howls with sirens of warning,

Whispering through the gap under the elder door.

Through the night she cries,

“Get out, you have to get out!”

Louder and louder with every hour that passes.

And the sky cries, moaning in fear.

For a house so old, so worn,

I find it strange,

Very peculiar indeed,

how the ceiling is not leaking,

At least not tonight.

It was as if the rain himself didn’t want to gain shelter in here. 

The air is cold, 

Stone cold.

Fingers of ice brushing along my spine.

A frozen ghost blowing a cold curse through my strands of hazel curls.  

I try to bury myself deeper within the blankets, 

Submerging myself in the sents of fabric softener and rose,

Bleeding red roses.

Trapping myself in a layer of freshly washed cotton but the more I submerge,

The colder the outside becomes. 

I watch her, 

She is illuminated with the warm orange haze of the candlelight.

She sits on the corner of the bed,

Her eyes are warm and endearing,

Her smile is soft and pure.

Her smile is home. 

I feel safe around her.

She reads to me, 

Her voice like lavender and cotton,

Silk even.

Her voice, however, is silent compared to the static warning coming from the antique radio.

The one that sits patiently on the oak dresser by the cynical sight of the swaying violet curtains.

The ones that hang from the ceiling to the floor either side of the partly open window. 

Through the static a man talks,

His voice,

Deep of oceans and cigarette smoke with a subtle hint of corrupt wisdom.

“Now remember there’s a murderer on the loose,

so lock your doors and turn on the lights.”

The radio stopped talking,

Returning to a state of confused mumbling. 

The floorboards in the corridor,

Are speaking,

In low and paralysing creaks.

There are feet stepping on the floorboards,

Cracking under the weight of steel cap boots and secrets.

They linger in the corridor.

Right outside my bedroom door.

I open my mouth,

Summoning up the courage to talk.

“I think someone in the corridor.”

I shudder as the words,

knives leave my mouth.

“I think it might be them,”

The creaks stop directly outside the door.

I can feel there is someone listening in.

“I think it’s the murderer.”

I look into her eyes,

And unfazed she smiles at me.

Rubbing her soft hands along my face.

“Don’t be silly dear,”

Her voice like lavender and cotton,

Silk even. 

“It’s perfectly impossible for there to be two in one place. “