Afraid of the Dark

He can’t rescue her.

Matt’s too busy struggling to survive.

He’s afraid of the dark. He fears men, their power, aggression and their very maleness.

Right at this moment, he is afraid of the sounds of their breathing all around him.

The only thing that keeps Matt sane is fear. He fears to move, lest they know he feigns sleep. Yet he knows he is too still, that a sleeping man swims in the rhythms of his dreams. But if he moves he won’t be able to hear the stealthy footstep that stops beside his bed.

Matt strains to hear. The only sounds are the muffled effervescence of the streets; of people his age, drinking, dancing and socialising. It is three or four am.

The city of Barcelona is silent only in the few hours before she wakes, and during siesta.

Back home in Australia, the tick of the clock kept him company through the early mornings. Tick, tick, like the heart that will not stop beating. It was often simpler not to sleep, to spend the dark hours reading, drawing, and surfing the internet. Or pacing.

Movement keeps him going. Tick, tick like a windup toy. If he stays still, the anxiety vibrates inside him with the timbre of impending detonation.

Here in this room full of men, Matt does not have the luxury. He cannot turn the light on to banish his fears.

The bunk above him creaks. A heavy body shifts, inches above his face. It pins him to his bed. Matt is unable to move, unable to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale. He listens for the stutter of rhythm that signifies waking.

He hears a snort, not quite a snore. Then the room is once more the silence of the mingled breath of sleep, and Matt’s fear.