The Knock on the Door

She had bolted every window and barricaded every door. The shutters were drawn. The radio was silent. The single light bulb above her cast more shadows than it did light. The chicken soup in the kitchen was cold.

She clutched the steak knife tight in her hands as she heard the truck pull up. The knock on the door echoed around the small room.

She closed her eyes. “God, keep him away!”

A key clicked in the lock.

She slumped, hugging the knife even closer. Her stack of chairs was pushed away as the door opened.

“Why darling,” he cried, “What is this?” His face grinned like a child’s, but his fingers twitched at his side. She looked down at his right hip, where one of his hands rested on something black.

“Get out,” she hissed.

“What kind of welcome is this?” he asked, taking a step closer.

She stood and pointed her knife. “Turn around and leave. Now.”

He took another step closer. “I didn’t come to leave.”

“Don’t come any closer!”

He only smiled.

She screamed and raised her knife. It slashed against his arm with a streak of silver and crimson.

“Oh? They’ll think I’m the violent one?” He grabbed her left arm with one hand, and with his other hand grabbed his black pistol.

She lunged to the side to grab the phone, but he kicked it away and spun her around. He pulled her close. “One thing I want them to know,” he said. He placed the pistol in her hand and closed his hand around her own. She struggled, but he raised the pistol calmly to her head and put his pointer finger over hers. With the hand that held her, he gently stroked her hair. He put his lips to her ear. “I love my daughter.” Then he pulled the trigger.