A knock at the door

This was my practice Enkerlish, sorry, English, essay. Creative Writing.

A knock at the door.

I had been waiting for my pizza far too long for my likening, and had already prepared, cooked and half eaten one I had made myself. I wasn’t going to pay. It was an unusually hot day in August. Gordy was in the shower and I could hear the rush of water in the background. The gooey, cheesy, almost perfect pizza I had created was warm in my mouth and smelt like pure beauty. I sat on the tatty couch, with pizza in hand and turned on the TV.

The knock came as I sat down. I groaned and told Gordy I would get it. As I approached the door, I got the taste of metal in the back of my throat that should have warned me, but I ignored it; I was probably just sensing another fight with the Pizza delivery boy, or so I thought.

I opened the door and was staring not at the face I expected. The person at the door was not the seventeen year old with the spotty, pus filled face and red cap which coved greasy brown hair.

My brain went into lock down, the clockwork engine slowing then coming to a stop. He had found us again. He had found us, just when life was starting to get back to normal. Jarvis Fryer had come to ruin my life once more. He pushed past into the flat before action registered in my brain, his curly black locks bobbing on his head as if not completely attactched, trying to escape. I would be trying to escape if I was Fryer’s hair. He bounced onto the couch, flicking of his shoes, grabbing a slice of pizza, making himself at home. I stood in front of the television, demanding to know why he had come.

Fryer sat up, clasping his hands together. I looked at the floor as he spoke. His shoes lay in a mess on the floor, by the sofa. They were tatty and worn, probably from miles of walking, chasing, and standing on street corners while more than just words were exchanged. How many ribs had the shoes kicked, I wondered. How long in till the shoes came into contact with my own ribs?

I looked into Fryer’s eyes and that’s when I saw it. The crazy, insane boy wanted me. He launched at me, dragging me across the room, my own hood covering my eyes. I felt a crack as I was pulled past the chair by the door. The door slammed shut, shaking the frame.

Gordy walked in from the bathroom, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, his hair still dripping wet. The door bell rang and he went to answer it, kicking the shoes out of his path. Alex, the adolescent delivery boy, handed over the pizza in exchange for a fiver from my own wallet. Gordy shut the door, took the pizza to the couch and settled down to watch the new film on Sky, with no recognition of my disappearance what so ever.

Bethonie Waring

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