Our house is as still as the Queen’s guards. Unblinking, unmoving.
Our dog’s chest rises and falls rhythmically and her breath fogs the glass panes that are usually shaking timidly from her bellows. Her short coat reflecting the warmth that creeps in through the sheer curtains.
Our cat, with a voice which would get her kicked out of any library is laying loaf-like and uncomplaining. Her pregnant, yet kitten-less stomach isn’t protesting her empty dish.
Our rabbit, mimicking a sixteen-year-old boy in both actions and attitude is laying corpse-like in his bed, nursing a banana hangover. His mane, as wild as a Joplin groupie, masks his eyes. I’m tempted to poke at his soft form to ensure he’s still earth-side.
I’m nearly positive both furnaces have stopped working because I can’t hear the whir of warm air filling the vents.
The feathered tenants occupying the large trees surrounding our home aren’t performing this afternoon. The outside of our home is mirroring the inside.
Buttons aren’t making music in the dryer and the persistently dripping faucet is as dry as stale bread. My shallow breath hangs on the air, suspended and soundless.
The man wielding a knife with intentions of making my liver his next meal isn’t pacing over the squeaky board in our living room. We have yet to meet face-to-face, but I’m certain he lives in our attic.
Steam silently rises from my freshly poured cup of coffee and I slurp the first mouthful to shatter the void.
**Photo by TJ Romero**
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