It’s late. 3AM late. Or early. Depends on who you ask. You belong to the mornings, not the nights. A slave to the six pendulum swings of the cuckoo clock.
You awaken to a sound. A crackling, a pressured twisting.
Footsteps?
Maybe, you think.
You hear the muffled sounds coming from everywhere.
But why here, now, in such crackling numbers? Intuition guards against such thoughts. But then, all of a sudden, the sounds stop. A dead silence envelops you.
The silence wakes you right up, its ringing like a shrill alarm from the 50’s. You snap awake. But.
Its late, too late. The doors bust open, windows crash to the ground, pelleting shards of glass inwards.
The co-ordinated, orchestral form of destruction, your own homes destruction, almost awes you for a flittering second. Your room explodes into smoke, glass and splinters. Your head hits something , hard, soft, you can’t tell. It happens in the same flittering second. And then its done. Over.
You eyes open to dark muddied boots waking all round you. They make way for a cleaner, more leathered boot. You try to take note but your blood starts trickling into your eyes. Its all blurry, crimson, black.
