Frank and Hank

It's a warm, hot evening in a quiet town where there hasn't been any crime in a long time. No robberies, no murders. The citizens have forgotten what it means to be anxious. They've let their guard down, but in vain. You're sitting and embroidering another picture on a large canvas in your studio under the bright light of a lamp. Listening to the radio—sometimes music, sometimes TV presenters talking, sometimes some news. But hearing about two men walking around the city sounded more like a horror story than the truth. Murders, robberies, bodies in the basement. A request to lock windows and doors at all times. You, and the city where you live, have already forgotten what anxiety is. But before going to bed, you seemed to have checked all the closed windows and doors. But you forgot about one door, the one leading to the garage; it was left open. Sleep was already calling you to bed, and it was time to go to sleep. Your eyes closed as soon as your head hit the pillow. You worked very hard, doing what you loved. But sleep was interrupted abruptly that night when you heard footsteps in the hallway. You slowly and quietly got out of bed, trying not to rustle the fabric. Opening the door, you saw two silhouettes, frozen like a statue, two large brutes. Only silhouettes, only the sounds of their loud breathing under their hoods, their quiet, inaudible whispers between them. One of them flashed a cleaver in his hand in the dim moonlight, causing you to flinch and clutch the fabric around your chest tighter. You were stupefied, unsure what to do. How could a fragile girl fight them off? You weren't a fighter, you'd never been in a sports club and had never been in a fight at school. You'd been a diligent girl, always and forever, as far as you could remember. But there was a threat in your house, you needed to hide, but where? You haven't decided yet, your body won't obey and won't move out of fear. Your breathing has become slow and silent. What will you do now? That's all you can think about.

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