I’m leaning against the door.
Outside, the sky spasmodically brightens with hell-fire, while behind me the television plays out an unspeakable loop of savagery and bloodshed on the streets of my city.
The doorbell rings again.
If I open this door, I’ll be taking the first irrevocable steps into a world without her, and I’m not ready to do that yet.
Our last exchange, earlier tonight, was brief and typically hostile.
“You’re not going out like that? You look like a tart.”
“Well, you’d know all about that.”
There’s a shuffling outside the door.
But then an exhausted, frightened voice…
Lovely to see a story from a fellow Friday Fictioneer, Lynn Love, winning Writing Magazine’s Bronte-themed story competition with Night of the Crying Women. Good one, Lynn. And also good to have a new prompt to get my teeth into; I was getting lazy. Many thanks for the respite though, Rochelle.