60: Knocks.
So loud.
The damn incision on the side of his head ached with the noise, and he wanted to shout out, tell them to stop, put an end to it. But the knocks came again and again, each louder than the last until he found himself sitting at his desk with his hands pressed to his ears, the marker falling from his fingers to the floor at his feet.
He stood up.
He stumbled for the door of the small room, for the stairs, nearly tripping over his daughter’s clothing strewn about.
He descended the stairs carefully, releasing his ears only long enough to steady himself on the railing.
Each knock echoed in his head.
The pain was worse than a migraine. Worse than a knife to the eye.
He wanted it to stop.
Needed it to stop.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stumbled across the foyer to the front door. When he reached it, when his fingers slipped over the brass doorknob, he drew in a deep breath. He forced the breath into his lungs, into his muscles, his flesh. He forced the calming air to fill his body and relax the pain. He felt the burning at his cheeks dissipate. He felt the pain begin to lessen. His thoughts cleared.
He forced a smile onto his face and opened the door.