Diluvian sojourn

It was there before I ever sat down, but that was the first time I was aware of what it was.  Well I must have sensed something before, because I approached in dread.

What was it?  A hand.  Long, thin, bony, with parchment skin and yellowed nails, reaching out from behind the curtain with slow agonizing precision.

My heart thundered like a ladle hitting a copper pig scalding pot in my chest.  My breath froze in my lungs, refusing either to come out or refresh.

It was quarter till two.  I remember that distinctly.  I saw it glowing ominously through the veil of my sleep.  Three simple numbers in luminous windows flooding the front of that tiny faced chroniker on my bedside table. 

One, four, five, silently chiming a death knell above the ringing in my ears, calling me to rise and go forth before I committed some act so horrific that I would never live it down.

It was only a few steps from there to here, but that is when I must have noticed it, some imperceptible shadow, or movement in the shower that set off this chain of events.

I might have wet my pants, but I did not, because I was no longer in a position to do so.  Instead, I opened my eyes and allowed the last shred of foggy sleep to rise into the bathroom light.

And of course nothing was there except the final shards of my imagination, or perhaps a whiff of the dream that had awakened me before I began that slit-eyed journey.