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Danny Sarubin

VICTORIES

I Alone she sits, every day and night, staring at the same cracked and water-stained wall that she
~hWays stares at, Alone. That's how it always is. No one comes to see her. It's as if she, too, has died in

e accident that claimed her parents' lives prematurely. The fatal collision was two years ago. Two
r~frs of her life have been spent on absolutely nothing. The phone never rings. The mailbox is never
u ' The doorbell _ well, it's broken, but that shouldn't be a bane to visitors. After all, she "does" have
a door and people "do" have knuckles. So why, then, does no one knock? Two of her twenty-seven
years have passed. What has she done during them? Nil. No, wait. She "has" stared and talked to her
wall. It doesn't talk back, though. Does that constitute social activity? No, she doesn't think so.

A knock on the door. A hollow knock, echoing through the house, bouncing off the walls, filling
every space. A visitor, she thinks. She runs to the door, trips over her own feet, gets back up, and
~eaches her destination. She grabs the knob. It's ice cold. But someone's outside, so the chill becomes
~relevant. She opens the door and looks out into the cold, moonless night. No one. A frozen wind
lows in and she is cold. She shuts the door, turns around and sees a form cloaked in black. She can't
see his eyes, but she knows that he's staring at her. Just like the wall, she thinks. She's far from afraid as
~: enters his cold embrace. It's so cold in his arms, yet it's so warm to her. She is happy. She has won.

ith her last breath, she claims her victory; her visitor.
And the visitor claims his prize; her life.
Stephen M. DuBois

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