Free The Language of Dying by Sarah Pinborough Page A

lamp glow creating shadows in the corners. At first I think I can hear her ghostly second heartbeat inside me, and all those others that will never have the chance to be. I listen toit and wonder if at last I’m truly slipping from drifter to madness, and then, as the sound grows louder, I realise that it’s hoof beats I can hear, hoof beats pummelling hard into tarmac, heavy and angry. The kind of angry gallop that could leave the road chipped and damaged no matter how strong the tar. Its roar fills my ears and it stops outside the house and I think I can feel the wall tremble behind me from the blast of its voice and hot breath.
    I raise my head slightly and stare at the wall. The streetlight filtering in from outside has created a silhouette movie on it. Even though the beat of hooves has stopped I can still feel the throb of energy pumping through the floor.
    Ignoring the logic that I am too high in the house for such a thing to be possible, a shadow on the wall rises up on its hind legs. It is magnificent and I hold my breath in wonder as that matted mane shakes angrily in outline. My eyes don’t hurt now, the grit in them gone. I watch for a long time as the shape dances and twists on the wall, whirling into a blur of blackness. Occasionally, I catch the glitter of a red eye.
    My body is stiff from holding one position for so long and I turn carefully around, each movement an effort, until my fingers are gripping the sill and my eyes and nose can peer over the ledge. I wipe the glass where my breath fogs it. The creature is standing in the centre of the empty road, just as it was all those years ago. Thistime, though, despite the shadow on the wall, it is still: totally and completely still, as if it is outside of time and the world around us. There is no impatience in those heavy hooves. I take it in. I think the gnarled root that protrudes from its vast head has become more twisted, more empty of colour over the years, but the solidity and sheer strength of the beast is unchanged.
    There is no laughter in its red eyes as that dark head looks up at me. There is a wind outside, but the stillness it holds as the trees sway is perfect. Statuesque. I stare. I know that on the wall behind me it is still whirling madly, but I know that the dance is coming to an end. Below me there is only calm and serenity. Its presence fills the street and fills me. My stomach swells out from the hollow. I can feel my organs again.
    We stare at each other through the glass and although I still know, deep down in the core of me, that we belong together, I feel no urge to run down and clamber on to its rough back. The longing is there, yes, but no urge. I don’t have the energy. I think it knows this. I think I see understanding in those red, inhuman eyes.
    I sit this way, staring out and time passes. I don’t know how many hours our eyes are locked, but I am aware of the moon creeping upwards behind the frozen beast. I could sit like this forever, however long that may turn out to be.
    Eventually it breaks our gaze and turns, energy once more unleashed, and loses itself in the field, disappearinginto the night. I feel its loss and I cry some more. But I don’t drift. These tears are hot and wet and I feel every one of them. I finally pull myself to my feet, ignoring the cramps and pins and needles that scream from my extremities, and go downstairs to make a cup of tea. I taste for the first time in a long time.
    The next day I pack up the children’s books and put them in the loft. I am still sad, but the dark drift is over.
    *
    ‘Paul’s here,’ Penny calls out, her head peering round the kitchen door. I can see the steam of her breath escaping as her sharp voice breaks my spell. I jump a little as I come back to the here and now.
    ‘I’m coming,’ I answer, releasing my hips from the grip of the swing. I take one last look up at your window and my fingers absently trace the outline of the dent in my chest. I smile a little.
    I