Channel Hopping

I CAN’T TELL YOU WHAT THOUGHTS WERE RACING THROUGH MY MIND AS WE TUMBLED HEAD OVER HEELS TOWARD THE CHURNING WATER, ONLY THE CRUSHING PAIN AS I SLAMMED AGAINST THE SHIPS CLIFF LIKE SIDE SEEMED REAL.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.
At last his vice like grip, which had fastened on my sleeve as he fell pulling me into this nightmare, gave way and I saw him hit the water a fraction of a second ahead of me.
Free! Free of his hold, but too late. Crashing through the surface, down in to cold, churning depths. The sucking turmoil , dragging me under with no idea of direction, purpose.
Water in my mouth, salt, choking cold, No air, just panic, the pain in both chest and head.
Can’t think; the noise the thundering pounding throb of engines.
Thrown and tossed, a piece of human flotsam, the sea spews me upp into the evening air. Gasping for breath and vomiting brine, I fight to keep my head above the foaming white wake as the Pride of Poole continues on her way oblivious of my predicament.
Gulping down great drafts of cool evening air, so sweet, I feel the rush of bubbles, the bump of something solid under my feet, the touch and tangle. He’s back!
I thrash at his ascending form with my legs, desperate to get away from him, intent on avoiding his grasp. Trying to haul myself away with frantic arms pulling through the water, but still I feel his presence rising through the dark depths.
Slipping under the surface, my clothes in a conspiracy, dragging me down. He’s so close, so dangerous; as desperate as I surely…
As I break the surface again, choking, eyes open, he’s there! Inches from my face. Only the whites of his eyes showing through the crushed and mangled face, just the head buoyant in the puddle of blood and brain which as I stare washes away to nothing, but the decapitated debris is thrown by the next wave against me and in a macabre caress, slides down my body into it’s watery grave. As it touches my skin I scream hysterically into the deepening dusk…..

The scream wakes me, drenched in cold sweat I throw off the duvet.
I’m scrambling for the light, eyes searching the dark as I bolt out of bed.
The soft bedside light fights off the early morning dark to reveal the familiar layout of our pastille floral bedroom; cushioned, cosy and perfectly normal.
It only takes a moment to walk through to the bathroom and only seconds more to dash cool calming water over my face. Walking back through the room, wrapping a towelling gown about me I pause for a minute to check that I haven’t disturbed Sharon. Her sleep is untroubled. The burning red digital display beside her out-stretched arm, reads 04.50 as I close the door and head downstairs.
The light from the fridge is sufficient to allow me to fill a glass with ice and to add several fingers of single malt. Closing the appliance plunges me back into darkness but I know the routine and soon am sat in the swing seat on the patio, this is far from the first time the nightmare has driven me from my bed to seek Solis in scotch and the solitary dawn watch.
The chatter of the dawn parade, welcoming the new day as the faintest of orange glows split the midnight blues, provide the back-drop to my tortured thoughts.
Yet again, I struggle with the memories of my dreams. Are the visions, so clear in sleep, echoes of something that has actually happened or the pressient projections of things to come. Merely the creations of an over-active imagination feeding on the hate I feel for that man. That man, Nigel, my brother-in-law…….