NOCTUARY

Deborah Hugill lives in North Yorkshire and writes every day, although often just in her head. Her day job is working for the local council but she is also a published playwright and has won several awards at drama festivals. She is a member of the local amateur dramatic company and acts and directs as well as writing. This is her first Writing Magazine competition win, after being shortlisted twice.

FIRST PLACE £250

(i) So, what shall I write? I’ve never kept any sort of journal and the blank page intimidates me.

I arrived at eleven on Tuesday morning, cast a perfunctory glance around the cottage, noted the sour vacant smell, the film of stale dust, and fell upon the bed and slept. For ten hours. More sleep than I’d had in a week, crammed into one day. I spent that night moving from room to room, consumed by restless insomnia. But then why should I sleep after a day spent slumbering?

The house closed around me like a fist, squeezing away my breath, and I flung open the curtains to the night. It is truly dark here. No lamps in the street, no cars. Nothing to disturb the perfect furry darkness. I peered into it, making out the pale edges of the trees, the tall, tangled heads of grass, and I longed to be outside. Another aspect of my condition this, the claustrophobia. I pace and I feel myself collapsing inward. Growing smaller.

By daybreak I was exhausted and, as light clawed at the smeared glass, I slept again. Deep sleep, thick as clotted cream, slowing the heart, hardening the arteries. I was wrapped in it, as tightly swaddled as a baby.

I awoke as dusk fell. The last talons of light laid upon the bed, their fury spent. Another day lost, but