It’s a sturdy house, well-made, and the glass in the windows is thick and snug. It does no good: when the hot breath is on my heels it feels like straw.
And it’s not as if there’s any attempt at a polite visitor’s knock, either: with a rank, lupine stink the beast is there, rampaging through my rooms. What drives it? Some terrible lack, a gut-deep need, a loathing of its own rough and barbarous fur, so different to my clean pink skin.
When you come down to it, it would be more helpful if the damned house was straw; if at need I could explode through a wall in a frenzy of fleet-footed terror. But I’ve built it too well for that, and now the beast is in here with me. Instead, I pound my hands on the window and shout. The thick glaze between me and the world muffles me: I may as well be silent.
Did I mention the beast is invisible? You, the passer-by, may be moved to pity by my desperate breath on the window, but you can’t see what pursues me. And I’m a pig. It’s not like you’re going to be sympathetic to my squeals even if you could hear them.
The moment when its teeth meet in my heel and drag me backwards is the moment at which the house explodes outwards and I’m straw, whirling in the wind.