What if I hear my name?
Around midnight when you wake up to go to the bathroom without the lights, missing the toilet is less important than burning your eyes.
That’s when I ask that question.
Mid-pee, the voice rasps my name. I jump out of my skin, hastily armed with a toothbrush, flipping the light.
Scrunch, scrunch, “Meow?”
Behind him? Nothing.
On one knee, looking out of the window. Nothing.
Breathe, Simon. Rustling behind me.
Shaking, I pull back the shower curtain. It’s on my face, clawing, biting, gnashing teeth, smelling of mildew and rot. I sleep.