I've heard numerous tales of the apocalypse, each one depicting scenes of crowds embodying all that is violence and blood marking the territory of the beast known as hopelessness. They'll send chills through your body as they detail corpses with unsatisfiable cravings and rows upon rows of windows with only dust and vacancy behind.
But in all the accounts of the cacophony, never will you hear about how softly the door clicked behind him.
When the screams are chronicled, never once do they mention the ones ensnared by my pillow or even the ones that festered and died within my very throat. Expositions of the end of the world will always fail to broach the benumbing air that invaded this house that day and the absolute silence save for the hitching of my breath. And while these stories may include the monstrous shudders of the earth itself, the trembling of my hands will always be more prominent.