I hear a knock on the door, but I don’t get up. I can’t, I’m too out of it.
They knock again, and announce themselves as the police. I would be grateful
for their arrival if I didn’t know that the door is attached to something
with a string. I don’t remember what the other end of the string is attached
to, though. I just know it’s bad. They give me one more warning before
deciding that I’m up to no good, and they’ll have to force their way in. On
the monitor, I see two more officers appear with a large red object. They
swing it back, and strike it against the door. I try to scream for them to
stop, but they don’t hear. It’s not their fault. I don’t think I can get
enough sound to come out of my body. I feel like I’ve been screaming this
whole time, and nothing has happened. What did those guys give me, and how
can I possibly power through its effects? The battering ram strikes the door
again. The noise rings in my ears. I try to reach up to rub them, but my
hands just end up falling off, and floating up into the air. I’m pretty sure
that’s not actually happening, but it might as well be, because I still have
no control over them. As far as I can tell, they’re not even mine anymore.
Perhaps they were never really mine, but God’s. He was the one who put me on
this Earth, and gave me this life. He decided who my parents were, and how I
was raised. He chose the skills I would grow up having, which would
inevitably lead me down this path. I’ve always disliked believing in such a
God, as it shifts all blame away from people. If they are not responsible
for their own actions, what right does anyone have to punish them? We should
all be punishing God, shouldn’t we? The ram strikes a third time. A crack
appears, but that’s about it, and I may even be imagining that. I can’t
trust anything I see, or anything I think. Strike four.
I didn’t think someone could get more than three strikes, but there’s a strong
possibility that we’re not playing baseball. When I was a boy, my neighbor
down the street would take me to games. It took me a long time to realize how
strange that was. He never did anything to me, mind you, but my mother didn’t
know that. I don’t remember them ever talking to each other for an extended
period of time, so she could get to know who he—what the hell was that sound?
Is someone at the door? I look over, but don’t think that’s a door, because
it’s all bulging and splintery. Doors are meant to be straight and flat.
People are yelling on the other side. They sound pretty mad if you ask me, but
I don’t know why, since everything is so okay. Sure, there’s a splodey thing
attached to that door, but as long as they don’t open it, we should all be
totally fine. They hit the door a sixth time, or was it seven? The bottom of
it falls into the room, still partially attached to the top, which is staying
surprisingly strong. A gigantic rat the size of a man scratches and punches at
the door in order to break it off completely. He crawls in and scurries right
towards me, then holds a gun to my chest. “Tom,” I say to the big rat. He
doesn’t know what I’m talking about, probably because rats don’t speak
English. “Rom,” I repeat. He shakes his head and argues, “ram.” He points back
to the red thing they used to get through the door. It’s sitting on the
threshold, right under another floating hand, which is trying to unlock the
door. I shake my head. That’s not what I wanted to say. This isn’t about Tom,
or rom, or the ram, or the bomb. Oh wait, no, it is about the bomb.
That’s what I’ve been trying to tell them. “Bomb.” The rat’s four eyes widen
as he looks back at the door, and traces the string with his eyes. He’s too
late, the door opens.
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