A Simple Knock
At work, a letter lay on my desk, hidden each time a certain colleague passed by. It was more than just paper and ink, it was a piece of me, a piece I wasn't ready to share. It was as if I was a spirit, doomed to walk the night, confined to fast in fires till the foul crimes done in my days of nature are burnt and purged away. But I am forbid to tell the secrets of my prison-house. In simpler words, I felt like a ghost, destined to wander in the darkness, trapped in a cycle of guilt until my past mistakes are cleansed. But I'm not allowed to share the secrets of my personal torment. Later, at home, my fortress of solitude was disturbed by a knock on the door. A simple knock, yet it sent my heart racing. Who could it be? A friend, a family member, a neighbor, or a stranger? Could they know about the letter? About the secrets I'm trying to keep? The thought was unsettling. As I opened the door, I saw a porpentine, its quills standing on end, like the hairs on the back of my neck. It was as if the creature was mirroring my own fear and anxiety, its quills standing on end, like mine, at the prospect of the unknown. Tomorrow beckons, with its promise so sweet, will it bring answers or will history repeat? As Hamlet once said, "Murder most foul, as in the best it is; But this most foul, strange and unnatural." Or in simpler terms, a murder is always a horrible act, but this one is especially disgusting, strange, and unnatural. Will my secrets be revealed as foul and unnatural, or will they remain hidden, like the letter on my desk? Only time will tell.