Someone was knocking at the door again. She could hear the pounding, above the pounding in her head. Someone wanted in, again, but she didn’t have the wherewithal to claw her way out of the bed and get to it, to answer. They would go away again. That’s what they did. They would come back, later. That’s also what they did.
They came back. Someone was knocking at the door again. She was fairly sure she could hear him shouting her name. If it was really him, he’d have busted down the door, picked the lock, set fire to the building. If it had really been him, he’d have gotten her out, however he wanted to.
He would get her out. Someone was knocking at the door again. She opened her eyes and looked at the ceiling. It was hard to know how long she’d been lying there, staring up. Waiting. She heard them try the handle, try to just grab and turn and come in, as though maybe she’d forgotten to lock it.
She forgot to lock it. Someone was knocking at the door again. She thought she could hear someone crying out in the hallway, but it wasn’t enough to get her out of bed.
She got out of bed. Someone was knocking at the door again. She heard someone shove something through the mail slot. Didn’t matter; she wouldn’t pick it up.
No one knocked. She picked it up. And read it.
No one knocked. She opened the door anyway, fire in her heart, heart in her throat, and let him in.