No sound but the boiling of water
The shuffle of my feet on the floor
The chop of the knife against the board
The door opens
Footsteps clutter the other room
“Welcome home,” I call
“I’m in the kitchen.”
“Hamburgers for dinner.”
“Can you set the table for me?”
The footsteps come behind me.
“I put the plates on the counter.”
Large hands wrap around my throat.
My arms flail pitifully
While the kitchen blurs and fades.
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