Scaly Fingers

Danny Briden, Writer

I woke up. My bladder about to burst. My skin about to crumble. The trip to the bathroom was a safari trip when you can’t get up straight. I slowly turned the handle of my shiny door handle reflected the mess of me. Each step creaked as the hardwood floor reflected the moon behind me. Suddenly a dent came in my stomach as I bumped into a table. The lamp tilted back and forward. My hand felt the table so I don’t bump into it again. That hurt. My water balloon blatter poured out as my needle poked at it. As I flushed the toilet I finally noticed my dry stomach. I walked a bit longer till the stairs were in my sight. Each step creaked as I slowly walked down the stairs. Down to the kitchen. I heard rummaging as I walked closer to the kitchen. The silhouette of, wait what was it? A-a man was there. “Hello,” I said sternly. He was startled. Turned at me with a dead mouse hanging out of his mouth. That’s when I lost it. Screaming I stood there. He quickly got up, his frale naked body almost limping. Was he hurt? What was it. Stomping was coming from downstairs. I didn’t notice him coming up with an army knife. Suddenly thin stomping was coming closer, as I turned he drove the knife into me. I saw my blood slowly onto his scaly fingers as I slowly lay down. I saw the chance as he loosened his grip on the knife sticking in me. I couldn’t breathe. I stayed there slowly passing out when I pulled the knife with my final strength and struck him in the arm. He started swinging his arm. The flailing suddenly stopped as my dad punched him in his neck. He lay there knocked out. I slowly got out, still stumbling but my dad helped me. The man was soon arrested. After years I learned that he hid in people’s attics and only came in the night for food. The last person’s house he had been in he had murdered after they found him. But why, how, the door was locked. Let’s just be happy he’s in jail now.