The Neighbour's Shadow

The last train drops me off at the station.

Out late again.

The path home is illuminated by stout street lamps littered along the ground.

Like melted taper candles that have glued themselves down.

I’m worried that someone is behind me.

As I move along the path, each lamp curses me with a shadow.

They mock me as I flinch at every rustle in the bushes, at every trick of the light.

My own reflections make me feel small.

It’s different in the summertime.

When the lights still come on at sunny six o’clock.

My journey home is a catwalk.

The little lamps are my stage lights; they make my sweaty legs shine.

But on winter nights such as these.

I’m catching a red-eye flight.

Once the cabin is asleep, I creep down the aisle.

Hundreds of shut eyes watch me.

I turn the corner into my street.

I’m now certain one of my shadows isn’t mine.

I quicken my pace, it mimics me.

I cross the road, it does not follow.

I sprint to my front door.

I can hear footsteps coming towards me.

Keys in hand, I fearfully fiddle with the lock.

Safety just seconds away.

I sense someone moving behind me.

I turn my head, preparing for the worst.

…

I hear my neighbour's door slam shut.

Once I finally enter the safe haven I call home.

I shower and brush my teeth, I spit and gargle.

I switch off the lights;

Entering what should be complete darkness.

A dim light floats through my window.

I peer out from behind the curtains.

A figure stands in my neighbour's window.

Watching.

Home is a feeling.

Home is where the heart is.

I check that all my doors and windows are locked.

Home is where your neighbours can’t get in.