I drifted out of a pleasant dream and felt mildly surprised the room was still so dark. My brain was expecting cool morning light filtering through the curtains.

Then it suddenly hit me: it was so dark because my eyes were still closed. I was wide awake, but I couldn’t open my eyes. A bolt of fear so hard I actually cried out shook my body. I rubbed my eyes- nothing felt unusual or different. I just physically couldn’t open my eyelids.

A few minutes passed while I lay back, completely still. As the immediate terror subsided, I thought back to the night and day before. Nothing in my fairly routine, drab life had changed. What terrible, sudden illness was this? I knew I was in my own bed, I could feel my own duvet and pillow. I tried again to and again to open my eyes, but I couldn’t, and the strain was starting to hurt the tiny little muscles around my eyeballs.

I needed help. Where was my cell phone? I groped towards the nightstand, and spilled my glass of water. I found my cellphone, sopping wet. Fumbling with smooth wet screen, I gave up in despair very soon, as I realised I could not turn it on. I couldn’t even remember how much charge it had. I remembered I could talk to it, and feeling foolish, I asked it to call my mother. Not just because I am still attached to my mother, but because she is a retired pharmacist and I thought she could help me with whatever paralysis had afflicted my eyelids.

Nothing happened. It must have been low charge, or else I wasn’t using the open sesame correctly. My phone remained dead, as useless as brick. Annoyingly, my mom’s words flitted round and round my brain- how worried she’s been that I started living alone, a direct contrast to my own feelings at living solo. I had been over the moon that I could finally afford my own place. I forwarded her articles showing the rise of numbers of people living by themself, but she wasn’t convinced. “But what if something happens, and you need help Mary?” she kept wailing.

WeIl, here I was. Something had happened, and I needed help. I guess mothers are always right, after all.

I knew to get help, I needed to leave the bedroom, go downstairs and leave my house. Sightless.

I swung my legs around and down, stood up, and then I heard it.

A short, soft suppressed cough.

To say I screamed would be an understatement. I am forever amazed at how on earth the neighbours didn’t hear my shrieks of terror and come barging in. Granted, I am not living in the best neighbourhood, but I had not realised terrified screams are such a common unremarkable occurrence.

Eventually I stopped screaming. Everywhere was silent.

“Hello?” I quavered.

Dead silence.

“Please”, I whimpered. “What do you want?”

I took a shaky step away from my bed, and felt to my disgust the hot wet liquid running down my legs. I hadn’t even realised I had done that when screaming.

I began to think I must have imagined the soft cough. The silent was so loud, and I could hear my ears ringing. I began to grope my way towards my bedroom door, my arms reached madly out in front of me.

Despite my better judgement, in the rush of victory of finding the door, I called out “I know you’re watching me you sick fuck. I know you’re enjoying this.”

Did I imagine that whoever was watching me shook their head?

I fell to my hands and knees and began groping my way to the stairs. I was terrified my observer would push me down the stairs- I felt certain that was going through their brain, and that they were debating it. I heard another breath, imagined or not, but this time I kept quiet. I needed all my concentration.

I found the stairs, gripped the banisters, and started going down, keeping my body low. My face was aching from the strain of not being able to open my eyelids.

Eventually I was downstairs.

And as I opened my front door, I felt a lightening in my face muscles, and the blackness flickered. The morning sun poured in on me, and I found I could open my eyes as usual. I stood on my front step blinking, my face scrunched up, unsure what to do next. There was no one in my house.

***

A few days later, I was at my mother’s place. I had kept my little adventure to myself, for what was the use of adding to her anxieties? And what was the use of reporting something like this? No matter how convinced I was that someone had done that to me, and had been in my house watching me struggle with temporary loss of vision, there was no point in wasting time and energy trying to report it, with no evidence. The only thing I did for myself was to book an appointment with a local optometrist. But even before the appointment, I knew my eyes were perfectly fine.

It must have been mother’s instinct then, for she would not let up on her worries for me that night. I was about to suggest she get counselling – she sounded more shrill and relentless than ever. And then she laid out her big proposal- with my father now comfortably passed. I should move back in with her. “What’s the point Mary,” she cried “You and I both alone, me retired and rattling around in this old house, you paying a fortune in rent in that terrible area- I can’t sleep a wink at night I swear knowing you are there all by yourself- I saw an episode of SVU the other night and it was all about push-in rape- oh my god if something like happened to you- no way of preventing-“ she paused to catch her breath, turned her face and coughed softly into her arm sleeve.

And the sound spiralled me back into that terrible black morning, that same soft suppressed cough.

She lifted her face, looked at me, and I stared back.

“What?” she asked innocently. But I knew.

I have not visited her since. It has been the hardest thing that I have had to do in my life. But every time I waiver, I remember that morning, and stay firm.

I will never go near her again.