Written for Sunday Photo Fiction.
It’s a door from a nightmare. The constant nightmare that has eradicated my sleep. Forced me to become a zombie in waking hours. Even the fire extinguisher is in place.
I know this dream. I grab the fire extinguisher. The man in the black balaclava opens the door. I hesitate the merest of moments, which is just enough time for him to adjust, push his will against the raised fire extinguisher, and thrust me into oblivion.
I hear the rattling of the door handle. I will not do as I’ve always done.
Instead I run to the kitchen and grab a butcher knife. I hold it upward, ready.
It’s on a downward arc.
“Hello, honey, I’m home.”