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Jacques turns the doorknob, but he hardly turned it before it won’t
go any farther. He turns it the other way and gets the same results.
“No” Jacques whispers, as if ordering it to the door. He suddenly feels his stomach burn, like an old sharp pipe was impaled right through it. He moves his hand to where he felt the jab; nothing feels wrong with it. But he can still feel a rusty pipe, twist and turning, scraping the walls of his insides with its spiky, rusty edges. He twists it again. It fights back. “That’s impossible.” Franticly, he keeps twisting the handle back and forth, hearing the same mocking sound of tapping metal. “That’s impossible!” He clamps both of his hands to the doorknob and, with his feet pushing off the ground, twists the doorknob as hard to the left as he could.“The door doesn’t have a lock. The door doesn’t have a lock. The door doesn’t have a lock.” Jacques chants to himself. Pushing of the ground with his feet, he twists harder. He can feel sweat leaking from his palms. They eventually start making his hands slip. “Goddam it!” Clenching his teeth, Jacques buries his hands in bottom of his shirt and reclamps the door handle.He twists the knob harder. His arm and hands are straining and beads of sweat rain over his forehead, but he barely notices it. “Goddamit! Open you cheap piece of crap.” Despite all fatigue, despite his anger, despite his fear, he’s confident that it will open. He knows it will. The doorknob to the basement was a cheap model, and he needed to replace it anyways. The lock was weak; it would break. It will.Instead, the doorknob breaks.
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6/15/2007 8:54:21 PM
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