Last night, the front door wouldn’t lock behind me.

Damp coldness must’ve warped the wood.

“Can you fix it?” I asked my boyfriend.

He pulled the foyer bench in front of the door.

“We live in suburbia.” The implication that my worries were dumb hung in the hallway after he went to watch TV.

“I guess we should just get rid of the front door then,” I whispered to myself.

In relationships, you have to let some things go. Like when he cancels our plan last minute or doesn’t wash the dishes even though he said he would. 

I finished my evening with a face mask, TikTok, and silence. 

Eventually, my anger dissipated.

By the time I turned off the light, I was sure I overreacted. He was right. 

Tomorrow we’d call a locksmith.

Sleep came fast and brought vivid dreams. 

At first, I thought the hand on my throat was imaginary.

Then the incessant pressure made me sit up. 

I swatted at the intruder, tried to clear my airways.

“Jackson.” My boyfriend’s name didn’t even resemble a word by the time it left my mouth.

I made my fingers into claws, morphed into an animal, focused on survival.

“An open door is an invitation for the devil,” the violent stranger whispers in my ear. “And your man broke the lock for me.”

***

This is a fictional thriller story.