Stand your ground. (497)


It was the way the door strained as I pushed against it that I knew this wasn’t a home that welcomed visitors. A horrendous screech accompanied the stiff door which if endured over time would be enough to disturb anyone’s soul. 

But I pushed anyway, my need to do my job well superseded any concerns I had for the repercussions of my actions. The rain was relentless and the eco-wrapped parcel I was delivering wouldn’t last long on the doorstep.

I had noticed that the door was open as I approached, the narrow beam of light highlighted a small gap between the door and frame. I banged on the door to alert whoever was inside to my presence and the gap widened slightly. 

Impatiently I’d given it a slight shove with the palm of my hand to see if it would open wide enough to pop the parcel through. It was then I realised it would require more effort and without even thinking I instinctively barged my shoulder against the door with some force and I stumbled across the threshold into the room.

It felt like I was entering a sealed tomb, dust activated due to the disturbance I’d actioned. The warm glow was like that from an incandescent bulb that had been banned long ago. This one flickered which added to the tension that was building. And then it hit me, like a swift slap round the face. I didn’t think of it as breaking and entering, I was simply delivering a parcel. 

As I contended with this realisation I heard shuffling coming from the kitchen, I called out “Hello?” It went unanswered but the shuffling continued as an elderly lady appeared. She was hunched over making it difficult to see her face, wild silver hair danced around her head as she lifted her face to look at me. “Hello dear.” She announced in a way that made me feel like she was expecting me. “Could you open that for me?” She gestured toward the package I was holding. 

I looked down at it and read the name out loud “Mrs White?” she nodded. I pulled at the tape causing the damp box to fall apart, a knife and a book fell to the floor. The photo on the back of the book was the woman in front of me, I looked at her to double check, she grinned in acknowledgement as I bent over to pick it up. Turning the book over to read the title ‘Getting away with Murder.’ By Black ‘n’ White.

It was then that I saw the axe that Mrs White was holding at her side, semi concealed in the folds of her dress but the glint bouncing off the blade now caught my attention. I suddenly became aware that I was part of something, a cleverly orchestrated scene where I had a part to play. I picked up the knife and the last thing I remember was meeting Mr Black.

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