I sat on my sofa and stared at the telly – it wasn’t on – but I still hoped for inspiration. The minimal light in the lounge, supplied by a small desk lamp, made a dim reflection in the TV’s screen of the sofa I sat on, as I tried to figure out the correct words to use, to show them who was really in command of my life.
A flash of light drew my attention to the road outside. It illuminated the lounge and was quickly followed by a deep boom of thunder.
I wouldn’t have thought anything of it had it not been for an after image of an old guy with long hair looking in at me. Mr Brizelthwaite? my mind queried.
I got off the sofa and looked out the window. Lightning flashed again and in the moment of that flash Mr Brizelthwaite appeared, standing at the dead centre of the road.
What a git. How dare he continue this façade. Just looking at the soaking bloke made me clench my teeth. I raced out of the lounge and out my front door. But in the few seconds it’d taken me to get to the front gate he’d vanished.
I stood in the middle of the road soaking wet, looking up and down, trying to see where Brizelthwaite had gone. He was nowhere to be seen. In that moment I decided to go back to Markent and give the old man a piece of my mind.