Home

Late last night, in the cool familiarity of speckled London air, I dragged my weary, thinner-than-usual frame towards a silent doorway. I have never been quite so happy to be home, especially as hard purpley-blue creatures were scraping their way through cramping intestines with their rough pincers. My ride smiles and waves, so I turn and lift a yellowly hand in his direction. Keys are reunited to embrace familiar locks, two soft clicks and I'm in. The tiled hallway has an elegant quality at this hour - faint blue light accentuates 1940s charm held in crumbly walls. Three bags are half-pulled, half-carried to the top of the stairs and I slouch as the last one falls from weak shoulders. I love this house, I always have. My bed invites me in, beckoning with friendly sheets, the warm familarity of a pink herringbone coverlet. Hmmm. Sleep. A wave of increasing deadness caresses grateful limbs and I'm home. I'm home.