Creative Writing: Home

Mellisa, John, and Emma are eating dinner at a small round walnut wood table, under the yellow shadow. Mellisa and John are engaged and Emma is Mellisa’s best friend. Emma often visits Mellisa on Thursday nights. They are having their favorite dishes, steak and wine. “So Emma, what are you up to this weekend?” “I’m going to Home Depot, I need to fix my door.” “What happened?” “A burglar broke into my house.” “Oh god! Did that vicious thief take anything valuable? Are you okay?” “Fortunately, no. Nothing of that sort. Luckily I wasn’t home that day.” “Well, I think you should report it, make sure the police get them.” “Yea, I’m thinking about that.” After finishing a bottle of wine, Emma decides to return home. The desk lamp
A hooded man stops in front of the darkest house. There is no hint of visibility. Not even a flare from a house nearby. Sneakers walk onto the cement path and up onto the porch of the house. The porch itself is even darker. Even the moonlight isn’t there. The man carefully places the ink black bag beside him as he kneels down to where the doorknob is a little above his head. The card swipes the bronze lock open. A hand mildly clutches the rusted tin and aluminum doorknob and turns. The door is now open with a one inch gap. The clanging and cracking of lustrous spiral turning echoes the night once again. His pupils fully concentrating on his hands, but his ears guarding him behind his back. Every minuscule movement he hears, pumps up the adrenaline 100 times in his body. He feels as if there is a pair of eyes watching him. There is a rubbing sound against the asphalt. He tries to jiggle out the doorknob, two more screws to go. Two pairs of tires gradually creep closer behind his back. With the tail of his eye, he sees the curtain in the window next to the door move. His heart beat, now taken control of his mind, is banging faster and louder than ever. Two white eyes emerge assembling the body of an old guy is spying on him through the window’s curtains. An engine. A mechanic monster is coming to catch him. He can’t follow the rhythm of his breath, or his body. A pair of white lights gets brighter and bolder, like the toxic blinding glares in a surgery room, as it points towards the house at full speed. The man drops his bag of bulbous goods beside his ink black bag and pushes his body upwards away from the porch. With his legs escaping in completely different directions, he bumps into the mailbox labeled “Smith’s,” it gives him a stinging pinch on his left arm. He tries to get his body together and starts