Spending even a little time with creative writing makes me feel wonderful. I am truly me when I'm creating and as much as I love blogging, this is where my heart lies. This piece of fiction is re-written from a shorter piece I wrote back in September 2014 entitled The Storm Rages On.
The Storm Rages On
The front door slammed shut and the walls shook. My heart jumped into my throat.
He was home.
I stood at the kitchen sink, my hands soaked in suds as I washed the dirty pans. My back was facing the kitchen door but I heard his heavy boots hit the marble floor tiles and knew he was looking at me. I smiled, putting my mask in place, and turned my head to look at him.
Even over my shoulder I could see something was wrong. His eyes burned, his face was red. As I fought back the tears, my heart pounding in my chest, I pulled my hands from the water, grabbed a towel to dry my hands and turned to face him.
"You didn't clean the drive..." he said.
Shit.
He glared at me for a second more before spinning on his heels and storming into the lounge. I heard the drawer open. I heard the metal clasp bang against the wood of the draw as he pulled the leather belt from its home. My stomach flipped. The lump in my throat hardened. My hands trembled.
The snap of the leather hitting his waiting open hand made me jump. I darted up the stairs, being sure to keep my steps light. I pushed on our bedroom door at the top of the stairs and closed it behind me. It clicked loudly and I froze. I held my breath. I listened for his heavy boots on the stairs.
Nothing.
"Andrea!" his voice boomed from the lounge.
My heart hammered in my chest as I scanned our bedroom for somewhere to hide. My eyes fell on the small wardrobe tucked away in the corner of the room. At five feet 3 inches tall, and with a petite figure, I could easily squeeze myself into the back of the wardrobe. He wouldn't look in there, I hoped. I pulled the doors open and climbed inside. Shuffling myself as far into the corner as I could I buried myself in clothes and shoes. I wrapped my arms around my knees, closed my eyes, and prayed he wouldn't find me.
"Andrea!" he yelled.
His heavy footsteps stomped from the lounge to the kitchen. He walked through the kitchen, his feet slamming against the tiles, and opened the back door. A second later the door slammed shut and the footsteps came back into the house.
"What is this crap Andrea?! Where are you?!"
It sounded like he was at the bottom of the stairs.
A moment of silence and he ran upstairs; his footsteps like thunder inside the house. The bedroom door burst open. I held my breath.
Please don't let him find me. Not again.
He walked into the room. Through the small gap between the wardrobe doors I watched as he pulled a bag from under the bed and slammed it onto the bed. He opened his drawers and threw clothes into the bag, zipped it up, threw it over his shoulder, and hurried out of the bedroom.
The bedroom door closed behind him but I couldn't bring myself to check. My heartbeat thumped in my ears.
I listened as he went downstairs. The front door opened then slammed shut, shaking the walls again.
All was quiet.
No footsteps. No yelling. No shuffling.
I stayed in the wardrobe a while longer, in the quiet of the house he would hear me crawling out. After a few minutes, once I was sure he'd gone, I pushed open the wardrobe doors and got up. I stepped into the bedroom to see he'd thrown clothes around the bedroom in his hurry to pack a bag. I sighed but left the bedroom as it was.
Taking hold of the bedroom door handle I pressed down slowly, still trying to be quiet. The door opened without any noise and light flooded into the room. I still heard nothing and decided he must've left.
I walked down the stairs, my heart still racing but my tension eased, and rounded the banister, heading for the lounge.
As I walked through the lounge door I spotted it; his bag, in the middle of the floor.
I looked up.
"Hello Andrea." He smirked, still holding the belt in his hand.
He was home.
I stood at the kitchen sink, my hands soaked in suds as I washed the dirty pans. My back was facing the kitchen door but I heard his heavy boots hit the marble floor tiles and knew he was looking at me. I smiled, putting my mask in place, and turned my head to look at him.
Even over my shoulder I could see something was wrong. His eyes burned, his face was red. As I fought back the tears, my heart pounding in my chest, I pulled my hands from the water, grabbed a towel to dry my hands and turned to face him.
"You didn't clean the drive..." he said.
Shit.
He glared at me for a second more before spinning on his heels and storming into the lounge. I heard the drawer open. I heard the metal clasp bang against the wood of the draw as he pulled the leather belt from its home. My stomach flipped. The lump in my throat hardened. My hands trembled.
The snap of the leather hitting his waiting open hand made me jump. I darted up the stairs, being sure to keep my steps light. I pushed on our bedroom door at the top of the stairs and closed it behind me. It clicked loudly and I froze. I held my breath. I listened for his heavy boots on the stairs.
Nothing.
"Andrea!" his voice boomed from the lounge.
My heart hammered in my chest as I scanned our bedroom for somewhere to hide. My eyes fell on the small wardrobe tucked away in the corner of the room. At five feet 3 inches tall, and with a petite figure, I could easily squeeze myself into the back of the wardrobe. He wouldn't look in there, I hoped. I pulled the doors open and climbed inside. Shuffling myself as far into the corner as I could I buried myself in clothes and shoes. I wrapped my arms around my knees, closed my eyes, and prayed he wouldn't find me.
"Andrea!" he yelled.
His heavy footsteps stomped from the lounge to the kitchen. He walked through the kitchen, his feet slamming against the tiles, and opened the back door. A second later the door slammed shut and the footsteps came back into the house.
"What is this crap Andrea?! Where are you?!"
It sounded like he was at the bottom of the stairs.
A moment of silence and he ran upstairs; his footsteps like thunder inside the house. The bedroom door burst open. I held my breath.
Please don't let him find me. Not again.
He walked into the room. Through the small gap between the wardrobe doors I watched as he pulled a bag from under the bed and slammed it onto the bed. He opened his drawers and threw clothes into the bag, zipped it up, threw it over his shoulder, and hurried out of the bedroom.
The bedroom door closed behind him but I couldn't bring myself to check. My heartbeat thumped in my ears.
I listened as he went downstairs. The front door opened then slammed shut, shaking the walls again.
All was quiet.
No footsteps. No yelling. No shuffling.
I stayed in the wardrobe a while longer, in the quiet of the house he would hear me crawling out. After a few minutes, once I was sure he'd gone, I pushed open the wardrobe doors and got up. I stepped into the bedroom to see he'd thrown clothes around the bedroom in his hurry to pack a bag. I sighed but left the bedroom as it was.
Taking hold of the bedroom door handle I pressed down slowly, still trying to be quiet. The door opened without any noise and light flooded into the room. I still heard nothing and decided he must've left.
I walked down the stairs, my heart still racing but my tension eased, and rounded the banister, heading for the lounge.
As I walked through the lounge door I spotted it; his bag, in the middle of the floor.
I looked up.
"Hello Andrea." He smirked, still holding the belt in his hand.
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