Sarah Ruth Thomas

When I stood up to go to the door, they knocked again.

This time it was a little harder.

I was getting up to answer the door, what the hell were they so impatient for?

I'm coming, hold on, I said, shaking my head in irritation.

After my words, they knocked a third fucking time, and this time it was hard enough to shake the walls of my apartment complex.

So hard, in fact, that I heard a fourth knock from my neighbor with a consecutive yell to keep it down.

At this point, there was no way in hell I was going to open the door or even answer it.

I mean, if it was the police, they would have announced themselves, I figured to myself.

So I tiptoed over to the door and gathered my resolve just to look through the eyehole.

Who I saw, who stood there, I swear on my life, was fucking Oscar from Channel 14.

I tried to catch my now deafening and scared breaths while I observed the fucking impossible standing a few centimeters from my door.

He looked ragged.

His clothes were torn and frayed, with even an entire sleeve missing.

And he was crying.

Hard.

Absolutely bawling.

But keeping his eyes fixated on the door...

On his exposed arm and on his forehead and neck, there were suture marks.

Clear evidence that those parts had been reattached.

I could feel my eyes shaking from terror at what was looking back at me through my door.