She slowly closed the door. She felt the door jamb meet her thumb as she gently pushed the door completely shut. She didn’t move her hand. She felt the seam that separated door from jamb and lingered there. She wasn’t crying. Not yet. She wasn’t looking at the door, her gaze was turned inward. Why did she feel this way? She moved away from the door and floated across the room like a ghost and sat down in the center of the couch. She couldn’t understand how he could make her feel so weak. She hated that she felt this way. Her hand crept across the surface of the couch cushion, she felt every bump and imperfection in that ugly green fabric, and thought fleetingly that she really needed to reupholster it like she’d planned to when she bought it on Craigslist three years ago. Her hand found the blanket that was always there for her ever since she was a little girl and would use it to wrap herself up in the dead of night to hide and protect herself from the monsters both real and imagined. She used it now in the same way for the same purpose.


(I sent my little piece of microfiction to Jackie H)