A few hours after putting Theodore to bed, I’m in the hazy midpoint between sleep and wakefulness when I hear the unmistakable sound of broken glass. My heart stops and my body fills with the cold dread of fear that comes when you are alone and there is no one to help. Someone is here. I creep down the stairs and hear the scrabbling of a human. There is heavy breathing. He is alone, only one pair of feet. It’s definitely a man. The step creaks.
“Who the fuck’s there?”
I scream in fright. His voice, rough and intimidating, is bellowing at me from the kitchen where one lightbulb is on. The house is shrouded in half light. My brain thinks of Theodore, upstairs, cocooned in this bubble away from disease. Another sheet of fear lays itself over my thoughts of a violent robbery. This stranger probably carries the virus. He dares to bring the Plague to my house.
“This isn’t your house,” I yell back with all the effort I can muster.
“I don’t fucking care. Get out.”
I can see him now, looming in the kitchen doorway. My brain is expecting him to charge toward me, pummel me or rape me or kill me. He’s a strange, angry man who has broken into a house and is loudly asserting himself despite being so obviously in the wrong. Why is he staying so far away? And then, the thought appears perfectly formed in the front of my brain. Of course. He’s scared of me. He came here to escape. A remote, rural, uninhabited cottage; the perfect sanctuary. He thought he could wait it out here. He had the same plan as me. The only difference is that this safety is mine. I have a right to be here.
I will win this. He thinks I have the virus. As far as he’s aware, I could kill him just by moving toward him.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say loudly, my voice clear as a bell as I step down the remaining stairs. “I came here with my son. I’m a host and my son is infected, he’s just upstairs. I came here to die with him.” The lie slips out of my mouth, smooth and certain.
I step toward the man.
“Don’t take another fucking step!” He’s shuffling backward. He looks like a cow being led to slaughter with bulging eyes and a mouth dry and twisting with terror.
“I’m not going to stop moving. This is my house. You shouldn’t be here. I have the virus. My son has the virus. If I so much as breathe near you, you’ll catch it and you’ll die. If you touch me, you’ll catch it and die. If you break my skin and my blood is near you, you’ll catch it and die. If you don’t want to die, get out.”
“Fucking crazy bitch!” he says, his voice choking on a sob. He is desperate, but I don’t care. That is not my concern.
He turns, there are a few scuffling sounds of objects being thrown around and then the back door mercifully slams shut. I stand in the hallway breathing heavily for a few seconds before breaking into a smile. I have never felt so powerful. This must be what men used to feel like. My mere physical presence is enough to terrify someone into running. No wonder they used to get drunk on it.
I put on a pair of hiking boots by the front door and go through to the kitchen where the door’s glass pane is lying all over the floor. Methodically I pick up the pieces of shattered glass and put them in the bin as my heart stops thumping in my ears and slowly, slowly goes back to normal. I clean every surface with bleach I find under the sink just in case that awful man touched anything. Eventually, the floor is clear and brushed, the room sterile and safe. I stand up and hear the blissful silence of the house, the cat purring as it winds its way around my legs.
I can’t help but check on Theodore. I have this belief, based on nothing but my own fear, that he’s traumatized by the events of the last few months but not expressing it during the day. I hate the idea that his nights could be tainted by fear and horror. I know he is exhausted, my poor baby. He was drooping by seven this evening and out like a light by eight. Life is exhaustingly different at the moment, and I panic about what it’s doing to Theodore. He’s eating different food in a different house with a different garden, and a desperate, grieving mother. His father is gone. I can’t even imagine what’s going through his head. Or maybe I just don’t want to. I’m so focused on him surviving I barely think anymore about the future. Will he be scarred forever by this nightmare? Will he know what it is to be happy and safe and calm ever again? Will he even remember Anthony? At the thought of Anthony, I get a blinding headache. There’s only so much I can think about at once.