The Man at the Door. Microfiction.

in #microfictionlast year (edited)

                                                                             There's a moment in the end                                                                              when you can listen to them.

Imagen libre en Pixnio

The man is still at the door, and he won't listen.

He says he knows my mother, but my mother is dead (I explain); he doesn’t seem to care about what I say. He insists; he knocks. He calls her name. He’s really loud.

None of my neighbors seems to listen. I’m beginning to feel desperate. My mother’s dead, I shout. Julianne! Julianne! He keeps calling.

My heart breaks and I die. No one will find me any time soon. It was only the two of us, my mother and I. No one found her either; she became dust. I will, too (I hope).

Julianne! Julianne! He keeps calling. Gosh, he’s loud. Should I disappear once I reach the threshold, I’m not sure. I walk towards the front door and tell him to stop, and, surprisingly, he stops. I’m sorry to bother, child. Where’s the mistress of this house, Julianne? I need to talk to her immediately. I need to tell her that her daughter is about to die.

I try hard not to understand (but I do). Leave! I cry. But he doesn't. He keeps on repeating the same message.

An hour goes by... Countless hours go by.

The man is still at the door.

Posted from my blog with SteemPress :

Thanks for reading microfiction.

Soy miembro de @talentclub.

Imagen diseñada por @wilins