Fists strike clumsily at my front door. Again and again and again.
I thought I’d be luckier than this. I switched off the lights, didn’t make a sound. And I know they can’t see me all the way back here. In the kitchen, in the dark, under a bed sheet-covered dining table. Can they somehow sense my presence? Had I made the slightest of sounds?
They’re banging even harder now. Scratching, scrambling, feverishly anticipating, desperate for their prize. But they can bang all they want, I won’t move, won’t open that door.
After all, I don’t even know who Jehovah really is.
BIO: Jack Holt Born and raised in Bristol, England, Jack now lives, breathes and writes almost daily from his bunker deep in the Somerset countryside." Jack Holt can also be found online at http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2012/01/02/past-transgressions/ and http://jackkholt.wordpress.com/2011/12/27/hunted/