A Fight for Family

There was only one rule: don’t open the door.

My head pounds as my thoughts race in panic. My hand gently traces the bleeding wound in the back of my skull as I slowly rise from the cold, dirty floor of my work shed. As I stand, swaying, my eyes fix on the door to the shed; the only way in or out.

I move towards the door, using my worktable as support, and carefully peer through the window of the door. I subconsciously reach for my chest. Even in the heavy rain, I can see the taut cord along its frame. Trapped, just like before. I push aside old pain and anguish in my throat and hastily turn attention to the tools of my shed.

My eyes fall first onto my chainsaw, but the sound will alert him. I can’t risk him knowing I made a new door out. That sick monster is looking for my wife and child inside the house, if he hasn’t found them already. I have to be silent. My hand grabs the lead pipe from the worktable without looking. This will have to do. There isn’t time.

Thunder racks the shed as I turn and make my way back to the door. I wedge my foot against the door to keep it from rattling before smashing the pipe through the window; the sound drowned by the downpour. I climb through the closed door, hitting the soggy ground with a muffled shout. I reach down and pull a shard of glass from my leg.

I spare a glance at the mechanism on the door before making my way to my back porch with only one thought in my head: this psychopath will never take my family again.