Flux

Although only one page long, the letter weighed heavy on him, Iain knew he was in no fit state to be returning to the working world but the decision had been made. He paused momentarily, considering going back to the desk and confessing his lies, getting the help he badly needed but instead he wearily trudged from the hospital and made his way home.
    There were no ghosts in his flat, for which he was thankful. He’d amazed himself at how quickly he’d got used to their presence but was glad to have a safe place from where they were absent.
    He telephoned work and let Michelle know he’d be returning the very next day. When he hung up, he sighed; there was no smile in his face and no joy in his heart. He ran himself a bath, knowing he’d wake up too late in the morning to shower and would have to rush from the house.
    The bath felt good once he’d got used to the temperature, and he slowly immersed his body. Warmed by the water’s embrace, his tension dissolved. Tendrils of steam rose to fill the room, condensing on the mirror and he breathed deeply of the scented vapour. His eyes closed as the water lapped around his shoulders.

    A splash! Something stinking and rotten covered his nose and mouth, pulling him down under the surface. The water had changed from clean fragrant bathwater to stagnant weed filled pond. He clawed at his face to rid himself of the hand which pulled him down, black rotten flesh hanging off bone, flaking off under Iain’s fingernails; panic had once again introduced itself. The arm was strong, Iain couldn’t fight his way to the surface, unable to breath until finally, after breaking one of the bony fingers, the grip relaxed a little. He gasped a deep breath and the smell of purification filled his lungs before he was once again pulled under.
    It’s not real, it’s all in your mind!
    They’re trying to kill you!
    It’s all in your mind!
    The attack didn’t feel imaginary; the screaming of his lungs and the pressure on his face were not make believe. He bit down hard, part of the hand came away in his teeth and Iain once again struggled to the surface. Despite his still-healing leg, he jumped from the tub faster than a bullet from a smoking gun, spitting rot from his mouth.
    The bath appeared normal; no sign of the struggle which had just occurred apart from a lone puddle on the tiled floor. Steam still rose and white frothy bubbles decorated the surface of the water. The bath still looked inviting, but he didn’t re-enter.
    Sitting on the toilet, head in hands, Iain wondered what it all meant. He’d started to get used to seeing ghosts and could handle their presence, but this attack was something completely different.
    It’ll get better he told himself.
    But it’s not is it? It’s getting worse, much worse.
    Having no idea how long he’d been sitting naked on the pan, he became aware of shivering uncontrollably. Grabbing a towel, he gave the mirror a wipe to remove the condensation; it wasn’t the sight of his haggard and hairy face which frightened him the most. The reflection of the room behind his face didn’t show a room at all, never mind his bathroom. Where there should have been white tiles, there was black ash and basalt, fires burned and shadows moved, dancing an unholy dance in the flames.
    He slammed his fist into the mirror, shattering it into a hundred pieces, the pane crazing before falling into the basin. A shard pierced the soft piece of skin between his middle and index fingers. Blood dripped into the sink, smearing the broken glass crimson brown. Iain watched, mesmerised as the blood trickled from his hand, dripping onto the surface of the glass before forming rivulets, starkly contrasted against the white enamel of the basin. He turned on the tap and held his hand beneath the running water before fetching a tea towel from the kitchen, wrapping it tightly around his injury and gripping the end between the affected fingers. Then he went to his room and like a child, cried himself to sleep.

    He dreamed he was at work, a normal day, numbers flashed on the screen and all around him others were busy doing the same. Michelle stood at the far end of the open plan office, going through figures or something similar. The door behind him opened, and a chill blew against his neck. Turning, he could see Dirty Bertie, the old man from the hospital, striding towards him still clothed in pyjamas with tubes dangling at his side, dripping blood and fluid onto the grey