Tonight, as it creaks open, and my head spins towards the hallway, as though the truth were only a nightmare, and it slams and creaks open again, gnawing at my fresh wound, no piney scent from the vines feeds my nostrils, no silvery voice cuts through the wind whistling outside. I watch its slow withdrawals, and its furious slams. Waiting. Entertaining a ridiculous hope. Then before crumpling into quiet sobs, I haul myself up, grab its cold brass knob and shut it, like it's always shut, gently. Silence engulfs everything. Like it did when your heart so suddenly stopped beating.
Chelsea Allen’s work has appeared in 50-Word Stories and 101 Words. She writes in the silent hours and avoids socialising like the plague. msha.ke/chelseaallen.com