The screen door opens on a banshee wail and front door always flies open with a solid thud against the drywall. At least what’s left of it - a perfect circular indentation from countless similar entries. It’s how he tells the world he’s back again. When his fingers curl around the edge of the door and whip it back closed it slows due to the air pocket created between the screen and the storm door. It settles against it’s frame with an impotent hiss. Which I’ve always thought is ironic. He can summon tears to my eyes and fear to my heart, yet, even he can’t break the laws of physics.

She never bought him combat boots but with a militant thud he marches up the stairs. Thud, thud, thud, thud, thud, thud. Six steps to the landing and another six to the upstairs hallway. I always take the stairs two at a time. They are squat and like everything in this government subsidized apartment, made for people too lazy to lift their feet any higher to move forward than is necessary. Thud, Thud, THud, THUd, THUD, THUD! But these resonant steps pound through the floor like a war drum. And as I sit in my green room, under my green sheets, and as the afternoon light slips through my green blinds bathing the room in a cool green light - I can almost imagine it IS a war drum and I sit here camouflaged in my forest of green.

Breathe, breathe slowly, steadily, but not so slow that the lungs start to shutter for air. Don’t forget silently - blend in mutely with the green. Today could be the day the knob doesn’t rattle and the dent in the door won’t increase. The lock won’t give way to the pounding this time. I’ll be able to shove the desk against it to brace this time - and it won’t be too heavy. *shutter*, breathe, *shutter*, breathe…

But like a hare I wait too long, always to long frozen in one place. Always wide eyed gaze locked on the knob - knowing fate before it viciously twists the doorknob, kicks the door in and steps through my last defense. Fate likes to see me cry so I make it fast - but not too fast in case it decides to prolong my punishment. I take long rasping breaths, silence is moot now. Sitting in the middle of my green bed I dig my fingers into my palms hoping for a distraction. Too bad that I chew my nails when I’m stressed - a dirty habit or so my aunt tells me. I should have listened. But now my fingers are dirty and my penance is only the light pressure of my fingertips against the meat of my palms.

I try and block out the words and the painful feel of his non-combat boot. Funny that- it hurts as if he SHOULD have steel toes. But it ends, even fate must cease devising a plan and see it through to completion.

Completion. Curling amongst the green sheets and curling up to my green pillow I listen to the familiar sounds of leaving. The screen door shrieks open and bangs shut again as the storm door whooshes mutely into it’s frame.