He Is Home The wind outside is laughing. It knows that I'm trapped in here, it knows that he'll be coming soon. Every branch that scrapes across my window, haunting fingernails in the dark, forces me further and further beneath the cover on my ramshackle bed. He will be here soon. Downstairs, I hear the front door open. My teeth grind together, gnawing at each other with anxious revere. It's by sheer will alone that I don't scream when I hear that first, heavy boot on the stairs leading to my room. He's coming.
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