The Storm

Wind battered the side of her little hideaway making the walls shudder under its force. She curled up even more, cupping her hands over the back of her head, as she huddled in the pantry closet.   The old walls of her house weren’t usually so loud, but down here on the floor in the dark it felt like they were about to fall in on her; to crumble and bury her in a grave of bricks and cans of soup. She wished it would just hurry up and do that already. Between the storm outside the house and the yelling outside the pantry, she’d take “death by pantry” any day.   The yelling was closer now. From here she could almost make out her mother’s quiet pleading over top of dad’s screamed insults – they’d moved to the kitchen. Pans and plates clattered as cupboard doors were opened and slammed, and with every loud noise the thunder grew louder and the walls rattled with more urgency. There was a frustration in her chest like a caged animal beating at its bars that grew and swelled the more the noise weighed down upon her, tinted with the blood-red taste of fear until all she could breathe and know was the relentless noise inside and out, pressing at her skull.   And she tried. She really, really tried. But the pounding in her head became a familiar pulsing through her veins and her hands began to tingle like static on her palms and before she could keep herself together the pantry door was open and the sudden light was blinding and dad was shouting and-   The thunder was deafening. The lightning cracked through the ceiling of the old bungalow, sparking and snapping. Rain and wind tore the damaged roof apart. Stone and brick crumbled. She screamed.   The sun broke through the clouds, illuminating the dust and rubble.   All was silent.