A Fleeting Fiction: Entry
The hall is grimy, dingy, dank. Yellowed lights spark off and on in their rusted cages overhead. Something has leaked from the ceiling, leaving a thousand ochre-stained trails down peeling once-gold diamond and fleur wallpaper.
He hears them breathing through the paneled door, his ear against its rough red surface. He breathes with them, in time. His pulse slows. His eyelids unclench, his brow smooths. The corners of his lips curl up, but the smile is not anticipatory; just the opposite.
The lights flicker again, a slow, unsteady pulse. They go out. With his finger curling gently, almost lovingly around the trigger, his other hand finds the knob.
It turns without resistance.
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