By Colt Pryor
Broken glass lit up my home’s entry hall. It was a gleaming trail of bread crumbs.
I stared down, mouth agape, stepping gingerly, slowly, heartbeat in my ears.
My right hip bone creaked as I lifted my leg up above the sharp edges that belonged to the glass shards and splintered wood, dangerously sprinkled across the threshold that led into the dining room.
Looking left, I saw my birthday flowers turned over on the tile in the breakfast nook, cloudy water pooling beneath the dried tulip petals that now lay sideways, askew, their preciously trimmed stems just a reminder of all that trouble gone to waste.
A timid “Hello?” escaped my lips. It hung in the air untouched.
My pulse sped and sweat beads formed on my face in a light sheen. My hands quivered as my mind’s eye saw broken images that didn’t quite connect.
“Hello…?” my voice sounded again, feminine and squeaky, echoing off the walls and bouncing off of the high, second floor ceilings, coming back to me from my stained concrete floors.
As my foot made contact with the concrete, my second step of terrific progress forward, I heard the sole of my shoe crunching the glass beneath my weight.
I grimaced at the sound.
My jaw clenched.
A scuffle in the breakfast nook took my pulse up another notch; by the time I collected my racing mind, I saw my back door wide open, the breeze blowing haphazardly in, ruffling the drapes in its wake, strong enough to blow the top layers of my hair back from my face and chill the moisture on my skin.
Taped to the back wall was an envelope with “Penelope” scrawled on the front in messy handwriting.
My foot itches…and burns…what…?
I took in a measured breath before I lifted up my left foot. Beneath my flat-soled leather shoe, buried deep into my foot, was a large nail.
I took another breath before the tunnel vision began. I retrieved my phone from my pocket and dialed 911.
Stop shaking. Quit shaking so hard, damn it. Focus. Focus, Penelope.
“Yes, hi, this is Penelope M. Miller. My home has been broken into and I have a nail driven into the bottom of my foot,” I said.
A shadow over my right shoulder made me jump with a start, driving the nail even further into my foot. Shrieking, I stumbled over to the adjacent wall, but remained puzzled as the shadow followed me.
Only the shadow was actually a knife handle was sticking out from my right collarbone.
“And I’ve been wounded. I’ve been stabbed,” I said quickly before the tunnel vision narrowed.
I leaned over and threw up all over the glass before the black spots took completely covered my field of vision.
***Colt Pryor is an American fiction writer currently seeking representation. She considers herself to be an old soul and shies away from social media.***