Wild Fiction

There was noise in the driveway, a scuffle and then she heard a cry. She stiffened and felt a clammy sweat break out all over her body. Her immediate thought was the kitchen door. Had she locked it? She traced her actions through her mind, visualising each step she had taken. Yes, she had locked it. She could see herself turning the key in the lock. She was sure, but she knew that her imagination could play tricks on her.
She got out of bed. An old-fashioned black and white horror film flashed into her mind. The young girl hears a noise in the attic and goes up to investigate it. I’m about to become the idiot in the attic, she thought. Instead this time it’s going to be the idiot that goes down into the kitchen.
She tiptoed across the room, pulled the curtains back a hair, and peered out. A plant pot was lying on its side with half the earth scattered on the drive. A strange cat was striding across the middle of the lawn its tail raised high in the air. She felt her body relax. Another tomcat she thought. He could smell Miracle and came to spray the territory.

Chapter 38

She managed a few hours of fitful sleep in the early hours of the morning but woke up tired and restless. She had dreamt of their wedding day and the honeymoon. She had loved him so much then. She had adored him. She tried to recall why she had loved him, what had drawn her to him. The more she tried the more inaccessible that part of her memory became. It was a white hazy mist, obscured by time, erased. Then she tried to remember why she hated him. What had split them apart, come between them. She could remember the raging jealousy she had felt when she read about the beautiful female character in his first attempt at a novel. She could not stand the thought that he could create a creature so beautiful and perfect in writing. She felt humiliated and inadequate. She had him edit her out. With later creations, she had him change their features. She refused to play second fiddle to a fictional. The dream circled around and returned to the tenderness she had once felt with him. In her dreams she made up her mind to call Corp in the morning and call this whole business off.
She got out of bed and drew the curtains. ‘What the hell is wrong with the weather?’ she asked the window. ‘This is England, where’s the drizzle and grey overcast sky? What are we doing with another beautiful cloudless day? Something is very wrong here. This is all very contrived, almost artificial, implanted.’