Tadashi's Apartment
Seattle, WA
United States
of America
August 2009
It’s seven in
the evening when Tadashi Sato manages to pull himself out of bed for the nth
time that day. He wasn’t so sure on the count, but he was at least certain that
the number was less than ten, maybe even five.
This depended on
the weight that sat on his shoulders. It never seemed to leave, not quite; it
had been there for a week, had been there since the dreams started, had been
there ever since he shut off the lights and sentenced himself to what felt like
solitary confinement underneath the bedsheets.
Knocking. Insistent
knocking, knocking that went on and on and on.
Each one makes
him flinch. Each one catches him off-guard.
Knocking, more
knocking; with each knock does Tadashi swear that it’s resounding in his ears,
resounding in his head. There’s the desire to mumble “stop”, but the word
catches in his throat. The knocking sounds ominous, sounds like a familiar
warning that makes him stop in his tracks and look at the doorknob with doubt,
fear, hesitation.
There’s a
familiar adrenaline rushing through his veins.
The knocking
sounds like gunshots.
