Allyson Schreiber

The Waiting

Each drop of rain crashes into the window pain. Claps of thunder erupt from all around me. A drop of water begins its descent down the wall where it will become part of a larger pool of water quickly growing on the floor. The six legs of an ant scratch upon the soft wooden surface of the deck. Three floors below Mr. Thompson's lock clicked open as he turns the key. Yet the door closes again and Mr. Thompson's footsteps grow louder. I can tell it is Mr. Thompson because his left foot makes a louder sound than his right because he had recently hurt his knee. Then I hear a sound unfamiliar to me. I hear the scrape of a metal barrel spin. The heavy sound of more medal slides inside. There was a scraping noise and then a click. Mr. Thompson raises his hand and puts it down heavily on the door handle. He pauses and his breath whistles in through his nose and out through his mouth. He breathes like this for six seconds. The handle begins to turn as the latch slides back into the door. The wind from the door blows back my bangs. Mr. Thompson raises his arm slowly and extends it. His finger begins to retract back towards him, but slips on its way and his finger thumps against cold metal. I can hear the beads of sweat roll down off his forehead and splash against the shoulders of his leather jacket. Mr. Thompson regroups his finger and begins to...


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