| About the author: | Matt Hassell was born in Luton in 1964 but has lived in Leicester for over 30 years. He started writing seriously in 2004. His only other published piece, 'Chef', appears at www.laurahird.com. He works as a plasterer. |
In the small hours of Sunday morning (any Sunday morning) Davor was drifting in and out of sleep. He became aware of a presence in his room. In the corner was a dirty, scurvy-faced rat. It swaggered menacingly across the floor and nosed its way under Davor's blankets. He felt its pointed claws tip-tapping up his legs and shuddered as its long scaly tail dragged in the cleft of his buttocks. Emerging rheumy eyed and dewy nosed at the top of the blankets the rat bit into the scalp on the back of Davor's head. Rocking and twisting the rat dislodged a large, bloodied clump of hair and skin. Davor turned onto his back to protect his hair but this only exposed his face. The rat scrambled onto it and began to gnaw at the soft corner of Davors left eye. He felt the rats claws lock onto his lower lip as it arched its back to bury its snout deep in his tear duct. He could smell its musty, urine-soaked fur and feel the heat emanating from its underside. He needed to fight the rat off, but his arms were dead weights at his side, frozen in a state of suspended indecision. Davor woke with a start. The rat jumped from his face and scuttled away through the wall. Davor put his hands to his damaged eye, but there was no blood, no wound. And no abrasion on the back of his head either. Nightmares. Stupid nightmares. Davor had been having them ever since the incident at home. The doctor at the reception centre had given him pills to help, but they had run out. Davor didn't want to go back to get more, even though he knew he needed them. He was afraid who might be there, from his country, his village, his past. | 
