Scheduled

Monday

Someone was knocking at the door again. She could hear the pounding, above the pounding in her head. Someone wanted in, again, but she didn’t have the wherewithal to claw her way out of the bed and get to it, to answer. They would go away again. That’s what they did. They would come back, later. That’s also what they did.

Tuesday

They came back. Someone was knocking at the door again. She was fairly sure she could hear him shouting her name. If it was really him, he’d have busted down the door, picked the lock, set fire to the building. If it had really been him, he’d have gotten her out, however he wanted to.

Wednesday

He would get her out. Someone was knocking at the door again. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. It was hard to know how long she’d been lying there, staring up. Waiting. She heard them try the handle, try to just grab and turn and come in, as though maybe she’d forgotten to lock it.

Thursday

She forgot to lock it. Someone was knocking at the door again. She thought she could hear someone crying out in the hallway, but it wasn’t enough to get her out of bed.

Friday

She got out of bed. Someone was knocking at the door again. She heard someone shove something through the mail slot. Didn’t matter; she wouldn’t pick it up.

Saturday

No one knocked. She picked it up. And read it.

Sunday

No one knocked. She opened the door anyway, fire in her heart, heart in her throat, and let him in.

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One response to “Scheduled

  1. Takes my breath away, right. Kind of like a poem but it’s not, and I couldn’t see where it was going, and ended so bang-on. I don’t even know how to classify this, but it’s fucking awesome.

    Like

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