What Enters When Walls Move

The wall…moved.

The Wall.  Freakin’. Moved.

It just…slid open.  I guess that’s why there are no doors here.  Or, doors in the traditional sense, at least; who needs them when the bloody walls open and close?

I couldn’t see for sure what was on the other side; too little light and too much steam, and, well, I was freaking out what with the wall moving and all.

But then this chick walks in all smiles and flumphs down in the chair beside me.  Twenty empty chairs in the room and she chooses to sit next to the guy who looks like he’s about to climb the wall behind him (provided it doesn’t move, of course).

When she leaned forward and shrugged out of a filthy backpack, parts of her body made contact with mine.  Hard.  Right in my sprained elbow.

I’m not normally a violent person, but I’ll admit my first thought was to punch her in the neck for that.  Probably some combination of fear and pain and instinct.  That’s what I’m telling myself, anyway.

I’ll never know if I actually would have done it because she chose to speak right then.

“Hi, Tag.  Sorry I’m late.  You look like shit.”

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