My dog sat protectively at my feet, staring at me. Awfully tired, but reluctant to leave me to sit alone. I edged forward on the settee, the music seemed louder from there. The distinct scent of the condolence flowers, which lay in a tattered heap on the coffee table in front of me, under my tear-drenched scarf, danced through both of my nostrils. It was surprisingly strong. I glanced down at the dog, who obviously saw this as an invitation to a far more comfortable seat. His black, shiny front legs, one at a time, slowly heaved his heavily muscled shoulders onto the settee beside me. Followed by his short hind legs, which failed to be able to push the remaining torso onto the slippery leather seat. His struggling eyes pleaded for a helping hand. I swung my right arm over his broad back and under his barrel-like rib cage, gripping tightly and pulling toward myself, he appreciatively licked my arm, and then settled next to me. After a few short moments, he sunk down into the settee and lolled his head onto my leg, where he stared back morosely at me, breathing in deeply and almost sighing as he forced breaths out. His brow furrowed into the form of self-pity and grief, now and then throwing the odd whimper at me. He’d always been good at mirroring my feelings.
The wind was audibly picking up speed and strength, it angrily punched the windowpane several times, before giving in and sending a fleet of fat, hefty, hard-hitting rain drops to pummel the windowpane some more. The door was trembling from being harassed so fiercely by the wind, it bellowed and whistled, trying the door handle and rattling the lock. My heart felt the enraged booming of the thunder as it rolled through the thick black clouds, calling for the lightning. The room lit up, everything was visible for a few short seconds. Then, when the lightning clocked off, the quiet, lonely darkness carried on the remainder of his shift.
A lone screw flew towards me, breezed past my right cheek and pinged off the wall behind me, as the French doors swung open with a sudden, monstrous clash. The aggressive wind had forced it’s way into the house, it bled through the building. It raced up the stairs, slamming doors in a childish fashion, while it ripped the photographs off the walls and crunched the glass in the frames, it spun around the curtains tearing them from the pole, as if it had a vendetta against the décor. The hellish gale swirled tauntingly around me, pulling my cardigan and twirling my hair around my throat. The dog lunged onto my lap, and began to warn off the frosty blasts with a series of blood curdling, deep and defensive barks and snarls. Silence fell. I stood.
Wrapping my cardigan around me tightly, and following my bodyguard of a dog, I peered out of the double doors and down the bleak corridor. The front door was closed. I returned to resume sitting on the sunken leather settee with my dog. As I sat, my left hand attempted to correct my windswept hair, while the right cradled my proud pet. I felt the beginnings of a snarl rekindling from the pit of his stomach; it rose up into his throat and gushed out between gritted teeth at the rain that spat spitefully at the window.
