He left the curtain closed again,
You can feel your blood stream churn
Crashing red-caps of pulse beat beneath fingers.
Breathe slowly, in and out with the metronome of dogs barking
A symphony from the shared wall. Tap your fingers to their music;
If you can hear them, someone would hear you. Surely, hopefully.
You keep a knife in every room, just in case, and you white knuckle fingers
Around it as you attack the curtain, finding it concealing nothing but bottles.
You are no less calm knowing that you must climb in and conceal yourself.
Shave your legs and keep your back against the wall. Feel the solid grout with your fingers.
Wash your hair with eyes open through burning water, closed they are a swirling horor.
Keep the water running while you slide open the curtain, keep the surprise on your side.
Hastily dry yourself with fumbling fingers, nearly call 911 at the shower stop dropping.
Pull your shirt over your head and expect to see a mad man on the other side. Crazed, like you.
Dad’s childhood pranks have nothing on this ruthless anxiety instilled by years of harmless ‘fun.’
The bedroom door closes in a trap; but the stairs are still a murder race, don’t look behind you.
Double check that the doors are still locked. Locking you in. Locking in the lurking, too.
Rush to a seat with your back firmly against a wall, feeling its solid comfort with your fingers.
Now wait. Exercise your wildest tortures, knife still close by, still waiting.
Envision the doorknob turning, strange fingers curling around the closet
Door that would block you in. Plan an escape route for each new thought.
Drink your coffee with not-yet-caffeinated jitter fingers.
Try to read a whole sentence without looking up.
Check the time. Almost there.
Finally, the first fingers
Of dawn slip through
The window cracks
And, finally,
Its all
over.