Iɴ MɪʟD FʀɪɢHᴛ • DᴏNɴɪᴇ DᴀRᴋᴏ

the first

WHEN THE clock struck twelve, i woke up. i was somewhere else. but i was calm. i waited until my eyes adjusted.

a cellar. cold wind blew through the door behind me. water leaked through the stone-clad ceiling. my breath was an echo. i didn't call out. i just turned and left. this was Grandma Death's cellar. this was the third time i'd wound up here. always following the same dream. always following the same man.

if i stare into the dark hard enough i can see him now, in front of me on the path. he isn't walking backward- i don't even know if he has legs. his face is a shift of lucid colours, perpetually smiling. he has the deepest smile lines you'll ever see.

i ignore him like i always do after he's lead me somewhere. i'm not wearing nightclothes. i'm wearing clothes from the day before. i never changed. i don't even remember coming home, getting into bed, ignoring everything.

i think my mind likes it better when i forget; even the good things. my shoelaces aren't tied. the metal at the end of them thwacks against the pavement in a lulling rhythm.

a car pulls up beside me, the window winding down with a screech. "that you, Mirov?"

i don't look at the driver. i just keep walking.

"what're you doing out so late, you been at a party?" the car continues to crawl along beside me. "do you need a lift back?"

i continue to ignore him, and the smiling man in front of me. i stuff my hands in my pockets and face downward.

"Mirov, kid, stop!" the guy was urgent. i think he knows my dad. i've heard him shouting at the tv with my dad when the footballs on.

i obey this time. i stop dead in my tracks. i don't look at him. just up at the smiling man. his eyes are creased and staring, with tiny pin prick pupils.

"what's going on, kid? you on something?"

"can you drive me home," it was more of a statement than a question. i finally looked at the guy. Mark, his name was, i remember.

he looked baffled. i get in. he pushes gently on the accelerator and we cruise along the block.

"y'know the Darkos' kid also walks about at night," Mark was saying. "i was playing golf with Jim Cunningham and he was just there, confused like a deer in headlights."

"maybe he was just following something," i mutter.

Mark laughed. "sure, kid."

most people just call me by my surname. it's my mum's, not my dad's. it's Russian. far nicer than Blake.

"this is your stop, kid," Mark pushed the breaks.

i look at him, deadpan. "why were you out driving so late?"

"work," he shrugged.

"i've never noticed you working late,"

"i've never found you wandering the streets on my drive home," he smiled cheerily.

"you've never driven down the right street then, Mark," i get out and close the door gently. i don't say goodbye.

the smiling man is waiting for me at the gate. i brush past him and go in the back door. until he stops taking me to that cellar, he doesn't deserve the attention.