The Break In by IsaacDean

By the time he opened the door it was three in the morning. His apartment reeked
of its familiar smell, a combination of coffee beans and sweat. The half-broken doorknob jiggled as he tried to get the key out. The knob rolled around a circle of exposed wood and chipped paint. He stumbled backwards and the key came out. It was his again. Closing his left eye, he tried to examine it, but the door clicked and took away the light.
Standing in the hallway, he thought it felt colder then usual or more alien then expected. Something about the darkness, the endless blackness of the unlit hall made him move slowly, creeping like an intruder through his own dwelling. His arm seemed to screech indefinitely towards the wall as he lifted the light switch. Nothing happened. He continued to flicker and prod the contraption until his curiosity was sufficed and he reached the bounds of his electrical expertise. Probably another power outage, or Wally’s doing. It wouldn’t be the first time. Superintendent Robert Walpole, or Wally as his tenants were reminded to call him, was notoriously forgetful when it came to paying necessary bills. Last January’s infamous “Super Bowl Blowout” lived up to its name. It was mid-month though, probably just another outage.
He ran his fingers along the sides of the walls to keep his place. He felt the layered nature of the paint, the imperfect groves and tiny bubbles of coated plaster. His fingers danced between framed photographs and imitations of art. If there had been light he would have seen frozen life, aunts gesturing to uncles across a crowded table, three sun baked bodies aligned before a sunset and a five dollar duplication of some nineteenth century masterpiece.
He needed to find a window. He needed to get some air or some light, something to familiarize himself. He felt like a toddler crawling across a toy-filled carpet. He smacked into an end table and nearly knocked over two lamps before landing himself into an armchair. He was just shy of the windowsill. Outside were the last shrills of the night, car horns and drunkards caught eternally between sunset and sunrise. The room spun for moment as blood pulsed through his skull. It was still black and he couldn’t help but think.
“Where’s the fucking light?”
He surprised himself. The sound of his own voice trailing off into some distant bedroom was frightening. It was as though some unseen opponent was lurking beyond, waiting for a moment to strike. A picture frame fell from the wall and shattered. The sound of breaking glass jolted him from the last throngs of a masculine high. He was now a child again, left home alone for the first time. Each noise, every creak and clatter, sent a wavering pulse down the sides of his arms. He reached for the remote, palm twitching. A shadow moved eerily along the wall. It straddled the ceiling on a diagonal, unnatural and distant. He felt stupid. There was nothing to fear. He was a man—a white man, a wealthy man, an American. The thought lingered in his mind for moment as his clenched the remote between his pale fingers. An ironic half-smile came across his face as he pushed down the power button. He anticipated an awakening pulse, waiting for the slothful entrance of colors and clarity. But there was nothing, only the tinted reflection from a glazed encasement of glass and plastic. He slid his index finger along the edge of a yellow triangle with the word “volume” above it. Somehow it empowered him, holding that subtle means of control. He thought maybe his eyes were adjusting. Speckles of deep yellow and white seemed to stream in lines along the floor. He should get to bed; it was late. He thought he heard or saw something, but who could be sure; it was too dark and he had had enough. Rising from the chair he stretched his arms and let out a comforting fake yawn. The blood drained from his skull, his head heavy and aloof. Something was off. He balanced himself, but it was too late.
It came from behind, an oozing of instantaneous chaos and disruption. The strike was firm, blunt and perfect. He thought it fitting as everything went black.