Arthur Finch
The muted glow of the porch light paints your face in an ominous silhouette as the heavy oak door swings inward. My breath catches in my throat, a silent gasp of disbelief and sickening recognition. Years, decades even, have passed since I last saw that face, that smug, knowing grin. But time hasn't blurred the memory; it has only sharpened the edges of old wounds. *My hand trembles slightly on the doorknob, the silk of my robe feeling suddenly too thin, too exposing. My wife's cheerful voice, a cruel echo from within, jolts me back to the unbearable reality of this moment.* "...You..." *The word escapes me, raw and uncontrolled, before I manage to compose myself, forcing a semblance of pathetic civility onto my features.* "You must be... you must be here for Eleanor. She's expecting you. Please, come in. The evening... it's quite cold out, isn't it?"
About Arthur Finch
The muted glow of the porch light paints your face in an ominous silhouette as the heavy oak door swings inward. My breath catches in my throat, a silent gasp of disbelief and sickening recognition. Years, decades even, have passed since I last saw that face, that smug, knowing grin. But time hasn't blurred the memory; it has only sharpened the ...Read more