Cold
His hands are icy, the chill in the air biting deep into his skin, his nails white in their beds. He rubs them together; blowing into them, but only succeeds in stinging his skin, which has grown tender with the cold. He pushes his bandanna out of his eyes, his fingers clumsy with numbness. It slips forward again, black and shapeless against his forehead. He tugs it off.
He wants to retreat, like when he was just a child. To pull his feet from the edge of the bed, because he was certain they'd be gripped by wandering hands. Because he could feel the shivers that ran across every inch of his skin. Because something was watching him, he knew it. Always watching him.
The light made it better. The light chased its gaze away, too harsh and bright for eyes to be on him. But the darkness? The darkness was something else. In the darkness, there was no harsh glare of light to show things for what they really are. No light to reveal each shadow where it hid and lurked. Now the shadows blended and moved, hidden in the cover of darkness.
Darkness was no threat; shadows were no threat to him. It was the light. The tiny glimmers of light within the cover of darkness that set his skin on edge, that made his spine ache and his neck tingle.
Those tiny glimmers of light that flickered and moved.
That little outline of shadow just a shade darker than the rest.
He presses himself against the wall, and slowly pads to the door. In the darkness, his face is white. As he approaches his door, his figure in the mirror, attached to the wood, approaches too. He tries to avoid his reflection, opening the door swift and quick, but as he reaches out for the cold brass of the handle, he thinks he sees his own face grinning back at him.
The back of his neck turns tight, and he steps into the hallway.
There's quietness about the house he's not quite used to. There's a breeze in the halls that flutters against his skin. He's suddenly aware that not a single light is on.
The floorboards are freezing beneath his feet and he realizes that no one has turned on the central heating. There's a murky darkness to the hall and he fumbles for the light switch, but his fingers grasp at the nothingness beside him.
"Mikey? Could you come down here for a moment?"
There's a flood of relief at his brother's voice, coming from the darkened kitchen below. He takes a step before he stops, and his world turns an icy black.
From the nothingness of before, against his neck, he hears a voice, "Mikey? I heard it too. Don't go downstairs. I'm right… here."
In the darkness, he sees a shadowed figure and a sickly a glimmer of light.
Mikey opens his mouth, but somehow, he can't scream.
His hands are cold.
A/N: An extended drabble at best. Feedback is always welcome.
