It’s buzzing, like a swarm of angry bees. It’s

almost here. 

Then, the eerie chime of an ice cream truck

coming from its shadowy depths, a sound

designed to lure us in. It’s trying to seduce us.

I clasp my hands over my ears when a shadow

falls over me, and crouch down deeper behind

an abandoned bus. People are shouting,

giving orders, crying out. With a pang I think

about James’ soft paws waking me up in the

morning, meowing for his breakfast. I can’t

give up.

The ancient scent of death and decay hits

me, paired with something sharp, something

modern, a bitterness that clings to the back of

my throat and has tears running down my face

as if trying to cleanse me. I can feel it on my

skin, in my hair. I don’t think I’ll ever be fully

clean again. If I make it out.

I want to write down what I see, if not for

myself, then for whoever f inds my notebooks,

yet the words escape me. They pop into

my mind, but the second I try to put them

on paper they vanish. A monster made of

shadows, confusion and blinking lights.

Occasionally I see faces, but they seem to have

no features. I’ve seen it swallow people whole,

the people who were captured by the chimes

and the lights, who seemed to have gone mad

and ran straight at it. They disappeared into

the black fog, all of them wearing the exact

same expression of ecstasy. I wonder if it’s

their faces I’m seeing.

We need help. I look around, frantic, waiting

for something, someone to come and help us. I

am surrounded by people in uniforms, in suits,

mothers and children Some of us are armed

all of us are huddled behind whatever we

could f ind. Waiting for it to be over. Waiting to

be saved. In the movies, this is when the hero

shows up. I search the faces around me for

traces of a plan, heroism, anything. Anything.

My mind is racing, still scribbling nonsense

into my notebook. Shadows. Lights. Chimes.

Lure it somewhere? Into sea? Volcano?

It’s getting closer though, thickening the

air with the scent of death. I cough and gag.

A woman holding her little boy’s hand is

crouched down next to me. She has her scarf

bound around her face and gestures for me to

do the same. We need someone to stand up, to

do something.

It’s ancient, this thing. I don’t know how I know

it, but I do. It’s been here forever. Ancient.

Scent of death. Panic rises in me, with a wave

of hot bile, and I swallow hard, forcing myself

to think about James’ purring, his soft, warm

little ribs vibrating.

My heart leaps as the woman next to me

stands up, and takes off her scarf, her eyes

full of stars. Will she?!

But then she lets go of the boy, opens her

arms and runs into the shadows, freezing a

scream in my throat. No.

His feral cry jumps me into action. He can’t

be older than six, making a move to follow his

mother, his face red and contorted.

No. I drop my notebook, grab him and set

off running in the opposite direction, a plan

illuminated as if it was waiting for me to f lip on

the light switch. I’m done waiting for the hero.

I will be the hero.

Nicky Bosman

Nicky Bosman is a psychologist writer and

PhDcandidate at GGZ OostBrabant and VU

Amsterdam She is interested in understanding

and writing about how people navigate the

complexities of the modern world without losing

their sanity

wwwlinkedincomin

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