Gemma Farrow
Artwork by Chris Cartwright

When his bed sheets began to hint at something more beneath them, Bruce Bailey blamed his wayward mind. It had played nothing but dirty tricks for months now – since the day Sheila died – yes, since then. So, when he entered his bedroom that Tuesday to catch a nap before his late shift at the factory, he frowned, rubbed his jaw and thought: I made the bed, didn’t I? I always make the bed.

He slept fitfully. Nothing strange in that: just another legacy from Sheila’s death. As much as he disliked the thought Bruce was growing used to the nightmarish quality of his days; of the long drawn out shadows that breathed and lurched drunkenly around his room. The light fixture had begun to resemble a blind milky eye, as if age itself worked upon it. Sometimes he wished it would simply blow. It offered little comfort anyway; its glow had grown sickly. Bruce imagined jaundiced skin clinging to it, tainting the light as it passed through. It was these thoughts that occupied the greater part of Bruce’s mind, and when they weren’t there, Sheila’s face would take up residence, wounded, half pleading waiting to come in from the cold.

Unable to sleep, he staggered out of bed, stood for a moment trying to recollect what he was supposed to do next. He’d slept in his work clothes again, something Mr Shueman had remarked upon the day before. His sympathy had long died along with his patience towards Bruce’s shattered attention. “Can’t work on a fac-to-ry floor Bruce, if you’re playing with the fairies.” He’d said in his neat and concise way.

For the second time that day (didn’t I make it before?) Bruce re-made the bed. In the bathroom he washed his face, ignoring his reflection. On impulse he pulled off his white shirt and dragged on a blue one, it was unwashed but wearable. He returned to the bedroom and stopped.

The sheets were dishevelled, pulled in places into curves and valleys. Sheila had been dead four months, not long enough for him to forget how a woman looked beneath bed covers. Bruce knew he wasn’t mistaken; there was someone in his bed. She lay curled on her side, her hands beneath her head and her feet drawn up.

“It’s my fucking head,” Bruce muttered, working his fists. “My goddamned head!” The sheets moved. A sigh shivered into the room, strong enough to upset the fabric stifling the woman’s mouth.

Bruce stumbled back, shock sending jolts of ice into his gut. This was by far the most lucid of his wild imaginings. So much so that he believed he could smell her. An acrid stench of something charred, it grew thick and cloying. Over-cooked meat. Bad meat, Bruce thought, against his better judgement stepping closer.

His mind had grown unhealthy, (that’s it and that’s all it is, right?) He couldn’t blame it, the way he’d been living. The house was a mess; dirty clothes strewn everywhere, litter overflowing the bin. His thoughts had adapted to their surroundings; to his depression. Why else, didn’t he simply remove the unsightly bulb and replace it with a new one (should turn the Goddamned thing off!), open the curtains instead of putting up with sullied shadow? Because he didn’t want to, Bruce wanted to nurture the only thing he had left, Sheila – no- Sheila’s dead.

He found himself standing by the bed. The bed he’d slept in for four months now wishing human warmth beside him. A pillow was a poor companion. His weary eyes took in the sheets, the slender figure beneath them. Definitely there. He could even see the rise and fall of her breath.

Her breath.

Sheila…

Toying with the corner of the sheet Bruce said, “Come out.”

The figure turned, called from sleep, her blind face searching, “Bruce?” She said, and her voice cracked like a bad connection. “Bruce?”

Unable to bear it Bruce screamed and tore away the sheet. The fabric whispered – only friction makes a sound like that – against her skin, her hands reached for her face, fingers splayed against her cheeks.

“Sheila-” his voice failed him, his legs buckled, Bruce found himself kneeling before the parody of his wife.

Her hands fled to her chest, her stomach, they squeezed and prodded, as if unable to believe she was intact. Almost.

She had no hair. Her eyes no longer blue but yellow and shrivelled, her collarbone and chest was littered with fragments of metal. Because of the crash, she’d always thought small cars were safer, so wrong. A small guy will always come off worst against a giant, and her mini resembled an accordion after the accident. Couldn’t get free, couldn’t escape the flames. Burnt away her hair, her face.

“You’re dead!” Bruce gasped, oily sweat pock-marking his face and neck.

Her yellow eyes pinned him; lips tried to smile. “Huh huh,” Sheila said, shaking her head. An odd, contemplative look shadowed her naked face, “I’ve come to keep our bed warm,” she whispered in that strange long distance way, crawling (like a broken puppet) toward the foot of the bed where Bruce knelt frozen, “You’ve been missing me, Bruce, haven’t you?”