Ninety-three
On the fifth day, a knock sounds on the door to our—my bedroom. The place I have been holed up since the news. He should be the one at the door, I stopped Lydia from coming in to clean. I sigh. Doesn’t he understand the definition of space? I need space. Time too.
The knock comes again, stronger. I push my phone under one pillow, it has been on aeroplane mode for days, bury my face in another and let out a scream. I don’t feel like doing anything. All I want is to exist in this numbness I am fast getting accustomed to.
Rolling on my back to glower at the door, the bullhead behind it should have taken the hint, I don’t want to see anybody. "Who’s that?" My voice is scratchy from lack of use, I receive no reply and my chest falls. I close my eyes, massage my temples. "Who’s there?"
"Brandon."