The Box

The room is dark.  My heart is trying to punch its way out of my chest.  Sweat begins to invade my palms.  I feel like I am being watched, as my eyes hunt around the room.  Pausing for a fearful moment, I remember to breathe.  I pull the box out of closet, I open it and smile.  Several ‘toe only’ cat steps carry me to the door.   I long to be free of this dark blanket of fear.  I reach down to open the door, the fleshy pad of my hand is hot against the cold metal of the handle.   In an instant, fears ghost like  fingers, pull the hairs on my neck as a voice whispers from the blackness of the room, “What’s your rush?”

. . .

Copyright © 2018 Zachary W. Gilbert

 

 

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