Work. The day was over before it began and Catherine realised that she couldn't remember any of it. How long had she been sat at this desk staring into nothingness? It was like waking from heavy sleep and realising that your arm was numb. How long had it felt that way? The sudden panic as you realise that your fingers are paralysed, wondering if they will ever return to normal again. Forcing your brain to concentrate on moving those fingers that, at that moment, feel so alien to you. They do not belong to you anymore. They belong to the thick, heavy air that seems to surround them. But the feeling is brief as the blood flows once more and your can move them again- you feel stupid for having worried, but it was a completely primal and unavoidable sensation. Catherine felt that now as she blinked, she was fully conscious for the first time that day since the subway station incident. Awake at last, wondering where the day had gone and what it was spent doing.
Her in-tray was empty, her out-tray was full. Clearly sleep-walking meant she was productive.
"I hate my life." She whispered to no one.
She stood and put on her coat. The sound of the fabric moving instantly reminded her of the underground and of the chase. The chase! She smiled. The fantasy man with the long dark hair.
"Long dark coat." The trance was back, she had no realisation that she was speaking aloud.
He had looked so…
"Wild."
and…
"Dangerous." She smiled again.
"The perfect man." Her smile cleared.
"All in my head."
As quickly as it had arrived the trance was gone and she was moving out of the office and into the street.
She found herself standing in that same empty white tiled space. She had meant to catch her train but instead her feet took her here- to the place where she had been chasing shadows. There was nowhere else they could have gone but she had to make sure, she needed the proof of her eyes to dismiss the vision in her head of the running man. The perfectly dangerous running man. There was nothing, no door, no window, no set of stairs, nothing but a small metal grate in the centre of the floor. She knelt down to touch it. It was smooth and cold from years of footsteps. It was thick and probably extremely heavy. It looked as though it had not been moved for years. There was only one odd feature on this grate and that was a small and deep scratch mark present on one of the bars. It was so deep that the edges of the scratched metal stood up angrily in jagged protest, and as Catherine ran her finger over it she could feel the surface of the edges graze at her skin. Absolutely anything could have caused that tear, but it fascinated her completely. Time passes- too much time. She has lingered here too long. In the darkness beyond the grate she hears a distant sound- a passing train surely? There's a smell now. A dank, dark, musty smell that suddenly seems to be getting thicker and thicker like the air around her is turning black. There's that noise again, she listens more carefully. There it is again, closer. Catherine stands and walks away swiftly not looking back.
"Not a train." She whispers. "Not a train." She is running now. Running to catch her train home, running to close her door and lock the bolts, running and panting to escape what is was that her brain was trying to warn her she was hearing but she could not believe it…growling. And as Catherine runs home she repeats over and over again to no one:
"All in my head. All in my head."