Fatuma Hydara

It’s dark.

I’m alone, or more precisely I’ve stopped noticing those around me.

I’m sitting on the edge of my seat . . .

unable to breathe,

not willing to blink,

eyes riveted to the big screen in front of me.

‘Oh Shit,’ the breathless scream echoes loudly inside my head, as my fingers grip the armrest tightly, tight enough for my knuckles to slowly lose their color.

The suspense, the not knowing . . .

My heart is speeding up, faster and faster. I gasp, as the figure on the screen narrowly misses a knife wound.

I keep starring, waiting for it to end,

hoping,

wishing,

praying.

‘Johnny Depp, you can’t die on me yet. There are other movies for you to star in!’ I close my eyes briefly, taking in a sharp breath, as the knife finally meets its intended target. I hesitantly open them again just in time to catch the flurry of action that ends with Johnny’s character as victor.

I relax, blood pressure slowly lowering, and smile. ‘What a great movie.’

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