The Day Before Tomorrow

Content Warning: Contains themes of grief and brief blood imagery.

A horn blares. The screech of rubber against tarmac rings in my ears, immobilising me. For a brief moment, I hardly remember where I am. When I turn my head stiffly and notice the driver clenching his steering wheel with an iron grip, unintelligibly shouting in my direction, my mind is only focused on how close I came to losing tomorrow. Which indeed, would be tragic. After all, tomorrow will be the first day off I’ve had for a while now.

Returning to my senses, I shout back and, rather childishly, flip him off. He can hardly blame me for his dangerous driving when I was the one nearly killed on a pedestrian crossing. Knowing an argument would be futile, I turn away and tune out the furious yells coming from the car as I continue my journey home - desperate to shut out the cacophony of the world. The only sensation I consciously register is the caress of the autumn rain over my skin, cleansing me of my lingering fatigue. 

A sudden clatter echoes from behind me. Another person needing help. Another person demanding my attention. Instinct urges me to turn back, so I spare a glance over my shoulder, but people have already gathered around the commotion. Just this once, it doesn’t have to be me. Not tonight. 

I’ve spent enough nights doing exactly that. Watching the people in the waiting room interlock fingers with a desperate, white-knuckled grip, never knowing if their relative is really okay. Watching the children gaze up at me through their tears, begging me to make the pain stop. I love being able to help. I love giving them the space to be alone without feeling alone. But now? I want a little of that for myself. Just one day without the demands of others - one day to be alone. With Lucky, of course. 

Reaching my front door, my hand finds its way into my bag, digging past old cafeteria receipts and crumpled caffeine-pill packets discarded at the bottom, until my fingers catch the cold metal of my housekeys. Guided by muscle memory, I scrape the key blindly against the metal lock, twisting it uselessly until it finally gives and I stumble inside. 

Yet I don’t quite feel the immediate sense of relief I anticipated. 

My bemusement is broken by Lucky’s surprisingly sharp claws sliding down my thighs as he jumps up in greeting, soothing me with his immediate, charming presence. I should really take him to be groomed soon. But my thoughts settle as I bask in how restorative it feels to be home. I scratch that one spot behind his ears that I know makes him melt, his chin leaning into my palm, starved for affection I’m too tired to give, but I summon the energy to try, nonetheless. 

Longing for the simplicity of an evening routine, I trundle up the cramped staircase, its walls intrusively close yet oddly comforting. The blazing water of the shower burns every inch of my body. It doesn’t feel as refreshing as I’d imagined, but I’ll settle for the comfort of it; I’ve been craving it just the same. 

My phone lights up with another message from my sister, Clara. She knows I’m finally off work and asks when we can see each other. I’ve been meaning to reply all week, but I can barely string a coherent thought together tonight. I set a reminder to text her tomorrow, put on pyjamas, don’t bother brushing my hair, and decide to satiate myself with the easiest food I can think of. 

“What do you think, Lucky? Takeout? Or instant noodles?” Lucky gives a feeble bark at the latter. A smile spreads across my cheeks as I meet his adoring gaze and card my fingers through his soft blonde curls that match my own, rewarding my best friend for deciding on my behalf. Choice made. 

I slump against the counter as the kettle fills, watching the water rise with considerably more interest than it deserves, while Lucky sits patiently by my feet as if hoping to live up to his name and be graced with some of my food. The kettle isn’t quite full, but I’ve waited long enough. I turn off the tap.

Silence.

Something beats against the air beside my ear. Startled, I spin around, nearly losing my footing. A magpie. Flapping wildly from one wall to the other, unable to find a way out. The inanity of it only adds to my irritation. I glance toward the open window, where an innocent gust of autumn wind stirs the curtains, as if it isn’t responsible for the unwelcome intrusion.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” 

I direct my attention back to the bird that’s turned my peaceful evening into a circus and begin to wildly wave my arms towards the window in an attempt to get it out. Stepping forward, my eyes fixed on the feathered intruder, something shifts beneath my foot. Lucky’s water bowl. Water splashes across the tiles. For a second, the room seems to tilt, and I can’t tell if I’m falling backwards or if the floor is reaching up for me. 

As the world slows, my question is answered; my head catches the edge of the counter and everything goes quiet.

Something isn’t right. I know that much. But before I can make sense of it, Lucky’s barking interrupts my muddled thoughts. I blink once. The bird has stopped. It perches on the edge of my kitchen table, watching me. I scowl at the infernal thing while my ears begin to ring from Lucky’s insistent yapping.  

“Give it a rest! I’m fine!” 

He doesn’t stop. I narrow my eyes at Lucky, stealing a glance at the bird to see if it’s still staring. Which it is. Then Lucky goes silent, apparently intimidated by my piercing stare. 

Refusing to waste my already depleted energy on this trivial mess, I abandon my efforts to chase it out. I am a doctor - not pest control. Dinner can wait until the bird has gone. Being swaddled in the cocoon of my bedsheets sounds much more enticing anyway. 

Shuffling my feet towards the door, I peer behind me to see the bird continue to stare at me like I’m a stranger in my own home. My frustration peaks when I see Lucky still hasn’t moved.

“Come on, Lucky.” 

He still doesn’t move. Sitting there on the kitchen floor, mirroring that same blank gaze of the magpie. So I don’t spare another glance as I turn my back to Lucky and retreat to the comfort of my bed. I won’t argue with a stubborn dog. 

But barely a moment later, I hear the familiar patter of paws behind me.

“That’s what I thought.” 

By the time I reach my bedroom, the chaos downstairs is beginning to feel like a particularly irritating dream. The covers embrace me warmly, settling me into a liminal state between waking and sleep. Every worry plaguing my thoughts becomes subdued as I give in to my fatigue. At last. Tomorrow will come soon enough. 

Somewhere downstairs, a door groans. My eyes snap open. 

Someone is inside. 

I freeze, clinging to what remains of my sense of safety, straining to hear anything beyond the silence.

Footsteps. Soft. Creeping.

I whisper hoarsely towards the place where I imagine Lucky is resting. “We’re not alone.” 

The world just has to thrust every inconvenience my way tonight. Just my luck. Yet my trembling hands betray my pitiful attempt to reassure myself as I curl up tighter.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can only listen. Listen as each tentative footstep grows louder. Listen and pray that this is all in my head. Another door creaks open downstairs. A voice follows. Faint. Familiar. Then nothing. 

A shrill cry erupts - a banshee’s wail, I swear. 

Every muscle in my body contracts. I cower beneath the covers like I’m that little girl again - hiding with my sister, clinging to one another whenever we were frightened by the monsters we were convinced lurked in the dark. But this time I have no one to cling to.  

As my thoughts whirl, threatening to smother me, the silence stretches on. I remind myself that I’ve wanted nothing more than to be left alone for days now. If someone really is in my house, there’s no one else to confront them. Only I can. 

Besides, I’ve dealt with much scarier things than this. It’s a silly Halloween prank, surely. Perhaps just the wind playing tricks on me. Yes, that. I’m sure of it. 

So, I untangle my legs and hover my feet over the floor, hesitating before finally lowering them. The carpet feels strangely unfamiliar beneath my toes, the crisp air cutting at my ankles. I can do this.

Somehow, the stairwell feels narrower than I remember as I descend each step cautiously. 

One step. Then another. Then another. 

The corridor seems to warp and elongate before me. But everything is utterly still. I should feel reassured. Instead, the sepulchrous silence does little to ease my mind. A chill creeps up my legs, sending a violent shiver through me; only then do I notice the front door standing half-open.

Paralysed by uncertainty, I call up the stairs, my voice quivering.

“Lucky…!”

I don’t dare turn my head, instead keeping my gaze fixed on the open doorway, beyond which lies a gaping void. But there’s no familiar patter of paws to follow my shout. He definitely followed me up there. So, I try again.

“Lucky…?” 

Still nothing.

The frantic pulse of fear subsides, giving way to a grim new concern. He wouldn’t have gone back into the kitchen, would he? No, not with that blasted bird still there. He couldn’t possibly have left through the door. He wouldn’t do that to me.

Loud, desperate barks interrupt my spiralling. Relief floods through me until I realise the sound isn’t coming from upstairs. It’s coming from the darkness beyond the door. 

And there’s Lucky. In someone’s arms. My sister’s arms. Clutching at his fur like she can’t bear to let him go. The same way we held each other as kids.

“Clara?” I gasp.

All my fear evaporates. It must have been Clara who came inside. 

“Clara - why do you have Lucky? Was that you downstairs earlier?” She doesn’t answer me. Her eyes are a map of broken red veins, glazed with tears.

“Hey! Hello? Clara?” 

My voice trails away when two police officers materialise from the gloom either side of her. One approaches quickly, his gaze fixed somewhere over my shoulder. I instinctively go to move aside, but I’m too late. 

He passes straight through me.

There’s no collision. No impact. Not even the brush of his uniform against my arm. I look down at myself. Then I slowly look back up to where my sister has not moved.

“I’m still here… aren’t I?”

I follow them into the kitchen. I don’t rush. I let the shadows consume me before my worst fears do. 

The magpie is sitting alone on the windowsill, perfectly still. Its eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I can’t bring myself to look away. Then it spreads its wings, slipping out the open window as easily as it came in, disappearing into the night. 

Only then do I turn towards the police officers. They’re crouched beside something on the floor where red spills across the tiles. I recognise the pyjamas first. My eyes trail upwards, ignoring the part of my mind that screams at me to stop.

No. It can’t be. 

That magpie. Lucky’s water bowl. The fall. 

I never got back up. 

The world blurs into a montage of grief. Seconds stretch into hours, marked only by the flashes of blue lights across the red-stained tiles. I sit slumped on the floor, unable to feel the burn of the tears I know should be falling. I watch officers drift in and out of the room. I watch my sister break down, a police officer gently holding her back in the hallway to spare her the sight of my lifeless body on the kitchen floor. I watch until it is finally covered and taken away. The ultimate theft of myself. 

Tomorrow was always meant to be the answer. I’ll rest tomorrow. I’ll visit my sister tomorrow. I’ll have time tomorrow. But now, as I ache to be tucked safely in my sister’s warm embrace, a comfort I’ve already begun to forget, I can only watch as she buries her face in Lucky’s blonde curls, so much like my own. 

I really am alone. 

She turns towards the doorway, cradling the only thing left in this cold house that’s ever waited for me to come home. I follow her, reaching for her shoulder. But my hand passes straight through. 

“Clara?” I rasp. 

She doesn’t turn around as she steps out into the swirling autumn air. I try to follow, but my feet anchor to the floorboards. The wind whips at her hair, but I cannot feel its chill.

Her cries break the night’s peace. A banshee’s wail, I swear. And though I cannot follow her, the sound still pierces the barrier, striking my chest and leaving a perpetual ache in my heart. 

But I must listen. Listen as her grief echoes through the dark, all the while painfully aware that I cannot reach out to comfort her.

That’s when I know I’m stuck here. 

Stuck in this house. 

Stuck living the day before tomorrow.