Doorbell

Doorbell

I have a real headache. It beats, not like a drum, but like a
doorbell. My phone rings, I tell them, "Do not call here," and I hold
my head in my hands and squint through fingers. My room is in strips,
ripped.

The doorbell rings but no one is waiting. I turn the lights off and
press my eyes to the dark.

The doorbell again, why do they hound me? Why do they come? "Do not
call here," I shout, but outside the curtain, no one is waiting.

I focus on the dots in the dark, colours I never see with eyes open.
The phone rings again, and now the doorbell. I ignore the phone and
swing open the front door. There stands a man, he smiles with straight
teeth, and a fist comes like a shot in the dark. His punch hits the
side of my ringing head, his fingers reach inside and pull all the
colours out, there is nothing to look at, not even black. (I had always
thought black was the backdrop.) I'm still thinking, I'm still
thinking, but the fist sinks in deeper and yanks out the power cord.
The doorbell's disconnected. It's silent again.