The slam of my feet echoes off the surrounding houses. Can’t let them catch me. Can’t let them see where I live. I rush up the once calm path. Crash into the door. Fumbling hands tumble into crunched pockets. Clasping the key in shaking twigs of fingers. Put in the key. Turn the key. Push the door. Slam the door. Turn. Run rapidly up the curving stairs. Slow down to enter my room and put the moss on my desk. Take a breather. Turn. Face the problem.
It lies there. Brown and rough at the base, because of the dirt it dug in to. Green and springy are it’s tendrilled leaves. Outwardly it seems as if I only just pulled it from it’s nest. The moss is clean, but it shouldn’t be. Why is it clean? Such a small thing, but it seems to hold so much.
I step forward and raise the moss before my eyes. It holds steady before my amateur scrutiny and yields nought that I sought. Sighing I sit in my plastic chair, surrounded by my wooden, white walled, draft ridden room. I lean back and gaze up at the white, slanting ceiling. I’m not in a ward, but it feels I should be with the scheme of the room and the thoughts that go through my mind. I rest a while.
When I awake it is dark. I open the curtains by my bed and see that a heavy, ghostly mist has descended on the early hours of the morning. If there were a time for evil to walk the earth this would be it. I rush to grab my coat, my sturdiest trainers, and the moss. I open my creaking door and gently pad down the stairs; not wishing to disturb any of my family. As I reach the front door a light flicks on upstairs and I hurriedly whisk myself outside and shut the door behind me.