4:44 AM

By Delaney S. Saul

I.

Wake up.

“I heard something,” your bedpartner says.

“Me too,” you say.

“I’ll check,” he says.

“Be careful.”

You watch him walk through the blue morning light to the door of your bedroom and

reassure yourself you locked the front entrance last night. Your bedpartner is a large man and his

broad shoulders are comforting, but you think of knives. You think of guns.

He creeps into the empty hallway. You can see him from where you sit on the bed. You

try to remember the rules of feng shui. Maybe the bed isn’t supposed to face the door.

Your bedpartner disappears around the corner, into the living room. His angry, confused

shout is cut short by the hollow crack of something blunt against bone. You hear him fall to the

floor.

II.

Wake up.

“I heard something,” your bedpartner says.

“Me too,” you say.

“I’ll check,” he says.

“Be careful.”

He’s a tender man. A runner, not a fighter. Worry chokes you as he swings his thin legs

over the edge of the bed. You locked the front entrance last night, but maybe you didn’t because

you took NyQuil and tottered to bed in a daze. Your bedpartner may have forgotten to lock the

door before joining you. You live in a safe neighborhood.

Your bedpartner screams and falls to his knees. You look over the edge of the mattress

and see his ankle and the blood. His Achilles tendon has been severed. Someone is under your

bed.

III.

Wake up.

“I heard—,” your boyfriend says before his sharp intake of surprised breath.

There is a man standing at the foot of your bed. Dirty footprints blacken the new lemon

carpet. He is holding your heavy flashlight, the one your late stepfather nicknamed ‘The Mugger

Beater.’

“Leave,” the man says to your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend doesn’t move.

“Get out, or I’ll hurt her,” the man says.

Your boyfriend’s eyes shine as they flick between you and the man. He squeezes your

hand, gets up, and walks out of the bedroom. The man shuts the door, locks it, then turns to you.

As he steps closer, you understand he would have hurt you either way.

IV.

Wake up.

Roll over.

The man in your bed is not your boyfriend. The man in your bed is a stranger.

“Good morning, kitten,” the man says with a jagged smile.

Naked, you are vulnerable as you spring from the bed. You bleat your boyfriend’s name.

Naked, the man pulls the blanket off himself, still smiling.

You find your lungs and scream. You run into the living room and trip over your

boyfriend who is on the floor, unconscious. He must have heard something you didn’t.

V.

Wake up.

The room undulates around you. Your head is heavy and useless. You try to feel your

forehead for fever, but your wrists are tied tight to the bedpost. You twist as far as you can and

vomit on the new lemon carpet. The bile almost matches. Everything is blurry and doubled.

Your husband is bound to the other bedpost. Unmoving, but breathing. Asleep. You tell

yourself he’s asleep. Painfully, you sit up as much as you can and look past him.

Two men sit at the desk you never use for writing, always pile laundry on. Twins. They

wear the same clothes, have the same haircut, use the same pair of eyes. Your vision focuses. It

is one man. He sees you seeing him and points his gun at your husband.

You don’t have time to think.

VI.

Wake up.

You hurt hurt hurt.

The blanket has been thrown aside and there is a deep slash across your stomach. The

bedclothes are dark with blood.

A man stands over you, knife suspended, about to carve again. He wears a ski mask, but

you know those eyes. You know. You know. You know you are bleeding. Out. Bleeding out.

There is not enough blood in your body, too much is on the bed.

The knife sings as your husband slices the air. You know that death is just like drifting

off to sleep.

VII.

Wake up.

“I heard something,” your boyfriend says.

“Me too,” you say.

“I’ll check,” he says.

“Be careful.”

Icy dread creeps up your spine, but your boyfriend is strong and will do anything to

protect you. He grabs The Mugger Beater off your bureau and tiptoes to the door.

You sit up and pull your legs against your body. Goosebumps rise on your arms despite

the warm dawn breeze drifting through the open window. The day is already bright, the air

summery and humid.

You rub sleep from one eye as your boyfriend steps into the hallway. The hall is how you

left it, a pair of pants relaxes on the floor, discarded before his shower. Your boyfriend peers into

the living room.

“It’s alright,” he says, “there’s no one here.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” He’s confident as he walks back to bed. Pets your hair. He’s asleep again in

minutes.

You don’t fall asleep for a long time.

About the Author: Delaney S. Saul

Delaney S. Saul lives in the Pacific Northwest. Find her on Instagram under @slimegrrl.