conversations with old friends.

It was a cold night.
I knew this because the my nasal cavities had become ice caverns with wild branches. My watch no longer functioned; the hands on it had simply stopped indicating the time rushing by, I knew that it was late and that I had to be home.
I quickened my pace and so went my heart, thumping a little harder against my rib cage. I hate this part of town; there's always the hobos in the bus shelters who stare at you almost longingly as you walk by.
"They want your flesh."
I walked harder against the pavement, but I made no sound. In between street lights, I felt my breath growing fainter, as though the sporadic darkness is attempting to crush me. Wait, I've felt this way before...
"Is he following you?"
I had not heard from Freddie in so long.
I dared not turn around, in case the hobo had heard Freddie too. I was afraid of the attention his comments had attracted. What if they hid in the bushes?
There was a crack, a rustle.
"I think he is."
I ran. If I stopped running, there would be horror to pay. Those stories on the news where the body is found so disfigured that they need dental records to identify it? That would be me come morning. There was nothing left in my body but adrenaline. Not the good kind.
I burst through my front door.
Slam. Bolt. Lock. Chain.
A succession of sharp movements designed to secure the insecure, keeping the intruders out on your doorstep. Arm the alarm. Turn off the lights. Lock the second lock. Step away from the door. At this point I wish I had installed some kind of panic button.
I turned to the dark hallway that lead to my bedroom. I wondered if my wife would be waiting for me, lying there peaceful and cold, as she always did.
I smiled, reassured. But Freddie did not.
"Didn't she leave you last year?"
And the door handle rattled; the intruder was here.