Creative Writing: The Cold War

It was a blazing summer’s day and my surroundings were slowly starting to melt. The trees, the houses, the sky and the paved corridor leading to my front door. It seemed that I was about to melt as well, becoming a puddle of glue-like substance left on the ground. I was walking at crawling speed and each muscle in my body felt sore. My movements were delayed as the instructions being sent from my brain were taking seconds to be put into action. It felt like a slow-motion horror movie, only I was in it. I finally reached the front door and grasped the handle with a loose grip.

I squeezed the handle of the door and pulled in a downwards motion, only to realize it had barely moved. I summoned the last reserves of strength left in my body and desperately pulled the handle again. No success. I leaned my back against the door and dropped to the ground, feeling faint. I was so thirsty that nothing else mattered other than getting inside. I had to get the door open before I fainted here. I lifted myself up from the ground and faced the door again. I briefly shut my eyes and sucked in a deep breath, I was dying for some water. Pulling the handle down as hard as my fatigues arms would let me, the door finally gave up its fight.

It was still boiling hot inside and it felt somewhat lonely. Once my eyes had adapted to the lighting I could tell that no one was around. Where was everyone? The house was dead silent and I was starting to panic. The silence was unnatural, especially for my chaotic home. There was no sound coming from the fridge, or the huge ticking clock hanging from the kitchen wall... nothing. I took a glass and made my way over to the sink to get some water. I opened the tap with the empty glass placed under it but no water came out, not even a drop. This all seemed like a horrible