Homework

I've missed the last couple of weeks of my creative writing class, but this week I have managed to do my homework, so I'm all set for Monday evening. This week's homework had an 'Intruder' theme, and this is my take on it. (It's meant to switch from first to third person narration near the end.)

"I’ve had a couple of drinks, so I’m not thinking too clearly. But I can hear him downstairs. And I know what he’s doing – what he’s after.
I shouldn’t have left Louise downstairs on her own. She’s probably dozing down there, after all that wine. Christ, she’s vulnerable…but you forget, don’t you? You never think it’ll happen to you, not in your own house.
I won’t put the landing light on…I’ll feel my way to the head of the stairs, so he won’t know I’m coming.

Even half-cut, I know where everything is. Left foot -- pot plant. Left hand, at shoulder level, the long picture of the Titanic -- that’s Louise’s. Starlight, smoke and steam, the lights of the cabins slipping under the dark sea. Like your life: that can slip under, too. You can be sailing along serenely, and than – bang – you crash into something, and it all slides away from you, and you’re careening down a slippery wooden deck that’s tilting at an ever-steeper angle. Hmm.

Right hand -- the banister. Smooth gloss paint against my palm.
Wait a second. Listen.

He’s just picked up a glass and a bottle -- hear that clink? Cheeky bastard.

He pads down the stairs, placing his feet precisely, like a cat walking along a fence, and he can hear his own nervous breathing. The lounge door is edged with faint light from the table lamps.

He can hear their voices on the other side of the door, faint murmurs. What does he want? What’s he saying to her? He puts his ear to the door, but all he can hear is the swirl of sounds from his own body: breath, heartbeat, blood.

He takes a breath and pushes the lounge door open. The voices cease.
Louise is curled up on the sofa, propped on one elbow, resting her head on her hand. Her dark hair half-obscures her face. Clive is sitting in the other armchair, his whisky balanced on his knee.

“Billy!Thought we’d lost you up there. You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m cool.”

He sits down next to Louise, rests his hand proprietarily on her knee."