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Mum went straight to the coffee machine as usual. Tabatha appeared a few minutes later, walking like a grumpy zombie in her night shirt. “That coffee machine is so loud, Mum. It wakes me every morning.” Tabatha climbed onto a bar stool at the island bench beside me. Unlike me, she always expected to be served breakfast by Mum. As I spooned another mouthful of cereal from my second bowl of the morning, I did my regular check of Tabatha’s thighs, looking discreetly down and to the right where she sat beside me. I was in luck today. Her night shirt had caught on the stool and pulled in a way that bared her whole left thigh. The fabric lay across her lap like a loin cloth, but her left thigh was bare all the way up to the side of her white buttock, which hung off the edge of the seat of the stool. My heart leapt and the spoon stopped in mid-air. My mouth hung open, but no longer for the cereal. Tabatha was flicking through a magazine, clearly oblivious to the fact that she was. Falling into softness. Pain receding. Then nothing. He was in a cold wet place, with several suns shining through mist. He shivered, and in the mist surrounding him he could see shapes moving, they loomed above him, he couldn’t make them out, monsters, they would drown him in the mud if he moved, he had to float, arch his back, feet together, breath, slow, steady, don’t make a noise, or the white monsters would get him. He could hear the moans and screams of the ones that the monsters caught. His bladder emptied. They covered his nose and mouth to suffocate him. Nothing. He was on a cloud, a soft warm cloud. He wasn’t cold any more. The most beautiful thing he ever saw was looking down at him. The face was soft, a little tired looking, but clean, it had a strange white hat, blond hair pulled back, and eyes so blue he could swim in them. The face smiled. He wasn’t in hell. He closed his eyes. The angel would take care of him. Nothing. He was trying to run, sweating, panting..
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