Fiend

I panted heavily as I pulled my quilt over my head.

There it was, again, for the third night in a row, the thing at the end of my bed, the thing that just stands there, haunting me. My mind went blank, the crack in the door had dissapeared and I couldn't see a thing, but I could feel something touch my leg, it felt rough and cold and sent shivers down my spine so I quickly jerked it back and screamed, hoping someone, anyone? could hear me I would open my eyes.

My mum burst into my room, followed by the light that leapt through the gap in the door. That was when the realisation dawned on me, I'd had another one of my childish dreams involving the 'thing' at the end of my bed.

She asked "what was wrong" ,with a reasuring tone that again made me feel even more like a child, I replied with "nothing",blatantly lying and she unusually accepted this, questioning it no further.

I layed, protectivley wrapped in my quilt, trying to compose myself while I glanced at my digital alarm clock which showed six a.m. November the third, "Oh" and the bit of unpredictable information, typical of England, that it was going to rain again today.

I dragged myself out of bed, trying not to dwell on the events of earlier, went downstairs and readied myself for school.