We Sleep with Sheep

We were sleeping well. The noises in the corner were no louder than those in our head so we ignored them. The sheep were typically silent.

When the brick came through the window, we were dreaming about Donny Osmond and about how he used to live on our street and that we knew his dirty little secret. His carnival float was no place for breaking glass and so vanished as our eyes shot open.

We must have yelled out at that point. Otherwise, how else did they know to come? Drawn by our scream, surely. 

The sound of someone knocking the rest of the glass from the frame of the window. The shadowy form – silhouetted by the street light. Our hand, groping under the bed for the cricket bat Dad got for our birthday. Big hopes.

As we swung at the shape climbing through the window – giving it all we had – striking for the boundary and beyond, we heard the door open behind us. As the bat hit home, the light-bulb blazed into life. As the glass in the window frame smashed out under the force of the blow, a voice behind us, infinitely weary: ‘oh, Gordon, this has to stop, dear.’

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