Gone
Voices screaming. A sharp shatter of broken glass. The splintering of wood and knuckles connecting in rage. Only a thin wall, an insufficient barrier, to block out the recurring ubiquitous crashes and yells. Pleading, a woman’s voice is barely heard over a man’s tone tinted with burning fire. Endless months of utter madness and I lay helpless underneath my thin sheets, shutting out the cacophony. Sleep lies just beyond reach, my acrimony too intense to cease. The voices rise and sleep fully retreats, bringing my senses at full height. Suddenly, silence spreads throughout the shaken house. I carefully draw myself out of my worn bed, my disheveled hair limp against my forehead, and creak open the door. A hallway lies before me, old oak floor masked with scratches and moldy holes. Indents in the tainted, graying walls resemble the shapes of fists and arms. I reach an opening in the wall and rest my eyes upon the wrecked kitchen. Broken glass ...