Not much time leftT.
He’s going to kill me.
I just know it. When he gets back, he’ll kill me. He’ll introduce my intestines to the walls, make my lamp good friends with my brain, show my blood, guts, and bones to the floor boards, the bed, the door. Oh god oh god he’s going to kill me.
Downstairs the door screeches open. He’s back. I don’t have much time left. There’s gotta be a way out. Only two stories from here to the ground. I’d survive that, right? But if I did, he’d just chase me back down. I know he would. He’d slice me, dice me, and then would have less to worry about when it came to the disposal of my remains. Oh man, he’s going to kill me!
I hear the pained squeak of springs as he takes his place in his favorite chair by the television. What should I do? Is this where I write my will? Tell people what happened, who did it, and then begin bequeathing my things? Would it escape these walls after my death or would he just get rid of it? I take my phone from my pocket, hoping to make some kind of call to get me out of here. It’s dead.
Just like me.
The springs are relaxed, releasing a loud sigh of relief. He’s coming. This is it. This is my demise. These thoughts could well be my last. Tears begin to flow down my cheeks, running into the sides of my mouth, a taste of salt filling my mouth quickly. I reconsider a jump. Even if I did die then it could at least be on my own terms.
He’s on the stairs. Each step pounds like a hammer on a rail road spike, metal on metal, echoing loudly across both the last seconds of my life.
What about my fish?
What about my mom?
What can I do?
Do I make my peace with God?
I turn toward the window.
Come on, open you stupid thing!
The last step. He’s on the landing, coming toward my door. I’m paralyzed, hand still trying to move the stuck lock. My eyes travel to the golden orb of a knob, turning slowly and deliberately. It pushes open, stuck in slow motion like a highlight from a Sunday night football game. And in he comes, the last man on Earth I’d like to see right now. He closes the door behind him and takes a seat on my bed, pushing his hair back in frustration and disappointment.
“Son,” he says, letting the words float in the air before continuing. “Would you mind telling me what happened at school today?”
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