Walking Home

I can’t see my feet in this fog.
Walking home.
Almost dark.

I look up and see a Man
with a face so thin and long
(and ghostly white)
I can’t believe my tired eyes.
He is holding the wrist of a Lady
in a white coat with black gloves.
Her mouth is open wide.
I lower my eyes
to the place my feet are supposed to be
(still can’t see)
and softly shake my head
before I look up again,
expecting them not to be
on the sidewalk of my familiar street,
but there they are
plain as my feet should be.

He is bending her arm back
a way it cannot go.
She looks surprised and terrified,
her mouth in a perfect circle.
His face is ash-white
and mean.
His smile is all black teeth.

I cross to them,
wading through the fog.
Her arm is going to snap.

Picking up my pace,
I snap open my little black knife
and take a deep breath.
I shout in a voice that is not my own,
an octave high and shrill to the ear.
The Man looks to me and snarls.
The sound is deep and low.
The Lady is hypnotized
by his ghostly face and her pain.

I keep my eyes on her
(almost there)
and scream hysterically,
She finally looks to me, confused.
I step right up,
poke my knife up to his throat
look into his dead eyes
and whisper in my own low voice,
“Let her go or I shall have to cut your throat.”
The Man lets go and
shows me his teeth.
They are pointed and black with slime.

I step between them now,
the knife at his waist.
I jab once, quick as a blink.
The squish seems to echo.
He begins to hiss.
I give no time for any thing more.
I take the Lady’s arm and cross the street.
We leave the Man standing there,
his blood dripping into the fog.

I turn, smile and
wave to him
just so he can see the knife again.
His ghostly face turns bright red.

The fog is clearing now.
Just another day.
Walking home.
Dark now,
but not alone.


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