Destruction.

Anna sighed with a heavy heart. A broken heart.

Shattered glass and crockery lined the tiled floors in the kitchen. The couch was ripped apart in the corner and the stuffing strewn about everywhere. Alf the dog, wandered around, unsure of what to do.

Bits of chairs were strewn about - some broken, some splintered. The only thing that didn't seem to be touched was the big heavy kitchen island in the centre of the room. Pictures on the walls were either hanging loose or ripped down.

Stepping carefully over the glass, Anna picked up the brush. Moving the first pile into the corner, she couldn't continue. She collapsed onto the floor and cried. She gave up at the first attempt.

Picking herself up and wiping her eyes, Anna stepped out into the hall. The visual mess were even greater there. The shock of it made her gasp.

The big urns that once stood either side of the front door were completely obliterated. Their pale blue pieces were strewn from the door right through into the study.

Where did she start? The destruction was colossal.

But the physical mess paled in comparison with the emotional one.

The terrible news she had initially suspected, was true. She had found receipts.

And after a full bottle of vodka, Anna flew into a vicious rage.

She took it out on her house.

Shadow.

Eric woke with a jolt. Bolting upright from his slumber, he removed his black velvet eyemask. His night terrors had returned. Rubbing his eyes and sitting on the edge of the bed, he sighed heavily. It was 1.38am.

It had been almost a week since he dreamed the dream.  He slowly rose and walked the ten or so steps to the ensuite bathroom. Splashing cold water on his face, he brought his head back up to see his reflection in the rectangular mirror.

Water dripped from all angles of his face. He made no effort to wipe them away. Staring back at him was a weary looking thirty three year old man. Opening the cabinet to the side of the mirror, he pulled out his stash of sleeping pills. Popping one in his mouth, he cupped a hand and poured water into it. Gulping down the pill, he returned to his side of the bed.

Sitting upright for a moment, he ran through the dream once again. His wife running toward him telling him to beware the shadows and the man in black. Just as he neared her everytime, he would wake.

But this time was somehow different.

Did a noise wake him this time in conjuction with the dream?

He checked the bedside alarm system. It was specifically housed in his bedside locker after the last intrusion.

He froze.

The red light was steady.

He didn’t move initially, fearing what might come next.

Moving slowly, he reached down underneath the console of the alarm system. He wrapped his hand around the Glock handgun.

The wooden floorboard creaked on the landing.

Eric slipped silently down the side of the bed, positioning himself.

He waited for the door to open.

His hands were slippery with sweat. Beads of impending doom creased his forehead.

The door slowly moved open.

The shadow appeared. Led by the flash of a silver gun.

Eric squeezed the trigger.

Ooze.

Sinead poked at it and then picked at it. Catching the edge of the scab and lifting ever so slowly with her fingernail. It lifted slightly but she lost her grip. Then thinking badly of herself, tapped it back down, trying to undo what she had done.

Then morbid curiousity got the better of her. No one was watching.

She pushed down on it and a clear fluid ebbed from the sides of the healing wound. It was spongy to the touch and not crusty as she had first thought. She recoiled in disgust, not expecting that to happen.

Grabbing a tissue from the bedside locker, she dabbed at the clear fluid, mopping it up. Once it had stopped gushing, she became bored.

Glancing at the brownish skin on the top of the knee, she couldn't help herself.

She flicked at it with her thumbnail. Then with her index finger.

It came loose and reddish pink skin was briefly visible as the top of the scab came loose but collapsed back down onto the wound.

That was the last thing she did before falling off the chair beside the bed. Sinead didn't hear her mother enter the room behind her. She gave her a clip of a slap behind the head.
Her mother was disgusted. 

How could a six year old pick a scab like that? In a hospital room?

Off her still unconscious grandmother?

Thunderstorm.

It started as a rumble. The lights flickered on and off. Rocky woke from his slumber beside the fire and growled at nothing, or so I thought. I continued to eat my dinner for one with the only other noise in the room being that of the clock ticking by. Then as if a heavy articulated truck went by the house, the ground shook. Rocky growled once more. The clock chimed as the hour struck. The tree started to sway in the front garden as the wind picked up.
The story of how my grandmother explained how God sends us thunderstorms somehow clicked in my mind. "He's just rolling oil barrels across the sky," she'd say. She could never explain the lightening though. 
The lights dimmed this time for approximately two seconds, and then the rumble sounded like it was just overhead. The rain started to fall, lightly at first. I paid no heed and hungrily ate. 
Then the rain started pelting off the window beside me. The sky changed to a blue-grey colour. The last thing I remember was pushing the soggy broccoli around my plate before the golf ball sized hailstones burst through the window and glass lacerated my cheekbone. I struggled to move away before the real disaster struck. 
I woke up in A&E with a broken arm, cuts to my face and neck. Rocky escaped without any injuries, thank God. But my home was ruined. As I moved away from the front window from the hailstones, the tree was struck by lightening and had crashed through the front of the house. It missed me by inches.