You by Gemma Allen

You watched the wind blow in from the west. It was fierce and rapid. It meant business. Everyone was preparing – boarding up windows, reinforcing doors and taking shelter in basements.

Not you.

The fascination of watching a meteorological phenomenon was too much of a draw. No matter what scare stories were told, the refusal to believe any harm would come to you was steadfast. No one else would be watching this, so it had to be done.

Sounds echoed of frantic preparations being made. The sense of fear was palpable, enticing. Watching the panic was enjoyable, although you couldn’t say why. Maybe because the human race lost the tendency to politeness when they were rushing.

You, in stark contrast, were as chilled as could be.  Nothing fazed you, definitely not some demonstration by the natural world. That was just an example of power that proved nothing. You had the real power.

As more humans ran from the scene, apparently in the ridiculous belief that their homes were reasonably safe, you remained motionless, staring from the window at the impending storm. In the distance telegraph poles floated through the air as if they were feathers. Occasionally heavier items, such as a trampoline or shed, were carried along too, waiting to be unceremoniously dumped in someone else’s garden.

It drew ever closer. The days turned into hours, and then minutes. Shutters clattered, a dog barked. Had that poor canine really been left by his owners?

Trees began to flatten and a child’s playhouse soared by. The wind whipped up still further, and all the windows began to rattle. Despite yourself, there were some nerves. You stepped away from the pane of glass, reconsidered, and returned to the spectacle. The house would protect you.

A cry ran out, shrill, breaking through the other noises. A small girl, aged about 8, was outside. Outside! What was she doing there? As you observed, she fought against the gale and reached the porch of your house. You waited, breath held. A frantic set of knocks came at the door.

You wanted to help – of course you did. But you were frozen. Another person here, another to look after? That wasn’t in the plan. In no imagined scenario had that been in the plan.

Another round of knocking. You sighed, knowing she had no other change of survival. Out there, in hurricane-force winds? Not a chance in hell. Reluctantly you moved downstairs and across to the door. Then there was silence.

A brief moment of hope, and then more, now desperate, thumps the other side of the door. As it was opened the wind grasped hold and flung it back, clattering against the wall. The girl ran in and pushed it shut, strong despite everything. You marvelled at her strength. Who was she?

She was panting heavily and her hair was matted all over her face, disguising her features. The wind howled in fury at having lost a victim, and the door suddenly felt like an inadequate protection.

“Say, what you still doing here? Thought all folk had gone.”

Despite her youth she had a ripe accent, which bellowed from her petite mouth.

“I’m Mary, by the way.”

You couldn’t help but stare at her poise and composure, under the most extreme of circumstances. She gestured to the lounge.

“Can I?”

You nodded, still dumbstruck at how she managed to survive out there. Mary settled on the battered sofa and began to take off the wettest of her clothes first. They were discarded in a heap on the floor.

“Sorry, it’s all making a right puddle, isn’t it!”

Her giggle reminded you of her age, and how vulnerable she was.

“Want a hot drink, Mary?”

“Found your voice, eh? I’ll have an earl grey tea if you have it, thanks.”

Her attempt at airs and graces was amusing. Whilst musing at the sophisticated taste of such a young girl, you headed to the kitchen and began making the drink, putting water on the hob to boil. Popping back to the lounge door, you stopped and watched in surprise as she took her hat off. It revealed a long, black, wavy hairstyle that reached her waist, but had remained bone dry. You wondered what sort of hat could keep that amount of hair dry in a hurricane, let alone stay on her head so neatly.

Mary looked up and caught your eye. A gradual smile crept across her face and she patted the sofa.

“Come, sit.”

You remained where you were.

“Come on!”

Impatience had crept into her voice, but you were immovable.

“Tea.”

You remembered a handy excuse and returned to the kitchen, in relative safety until the window over the sink shattered, and shards of glass flew at you. Mary came running in.

“Oh my god! Let’s get you out of here. Have you got a basement?”

You uttered a sound that she interpreted as a yes.

“Show me.”

She had taken command, and you did as you were told. The basement was sparse and badly-lit, but Mary ignored the surroundings as she began to examine your face for pieces of glass.

“Hold still, will ya!”

You obeyed whilst she carefully pulled out the glass she could see.

“What a mess. You should never have been by the window. That was my fault.”

Her face was close to yours, her breath warm. You stepped back.

“Stop, Mary.”

You couldn’t name the feeling that was swarming over you, but it was bad one.

“Get out. Leave. Go home!”

“What?!”

She sounded incredulous, and for good reason. You were trying to send her out to her probable death. You grasped her round the waist and carried her upstairs as she fought, kicking and screaming.

At the door she went silent, and with tear-stained eyes pleaded with you. But the fear of turfing her out to face the elements was nothing compared to the fear you had felt when she got close.

You wrestled the door open and shoved her. She cried out again for leniency but the door slammed behind her.

You were alone once again. As you should be.