A Knock at the Door - A Breathless Prose Political Horror Story 

I hear the knock before I see the lights, before I hear the voices, before I understand what is happening, before I even know that this is happening to me, and I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth, the sound sharp and certain and undeniable, a sound that does not ask permission, a sound that does not wait for an answer, a sound that tells me that my time is up, and I do not know why I am so sure, do not know why my hands are shaking, do not know why my body has already decided to run when my mind has not yet caught up, but my heart is hammering, my breath already unsteady, because I know what this knock means, have heard about it, have whispered about it, have seen it happen to others but never thought it would happen to me, never thought I would be the one sitting in a quiet apartment, eating reheated noodles, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic one second and then nothing, nothing at all, just silence and the knock and the feeling that I have already disappeared. I stand too fast, my chair scraping against the tile, my pulse so loud in my ears I almost don’t hear the second knock, almost don’t hear the voices beyond the door, Department of Homeland Security, U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement, and I feel something cold and certain lock around my ribs, because it doesn’t matter that I have done nothing wrong, doesn’t matter that I have a visa, doesn’t matter that my paperwork is clean and in order and filed properly, because there is no order anymore, only force, only erasure, only a system that decides who stays and who vanishes, and I have seen the stories, the protests, the detentions without reason, the people who were legal until suddenly they weren’t, the ones who went to work and never came home, the ones who made a call and their voices never reached the other end, the ones who knocked on their neighbor’s door and found an empty apartment where a family used to be, their belongings left behind, coffee cups still half full, shoes by the door, but the people gone, just gone, and I tell myself that will not be me, that I will not let that be me, but I do not know how to stop it, do not know what to do, do not know where to go, because they are already here, they are already here, they are already here. I step backward, too fast, knocking over my chair, my breath coming too fast, and I tell myself to calm down, to think, to move, but the knock comes again, firmer, heavier, and I know they will not wait, know that if I do not open the door they will open it for me, and I grab my phone, my hands shaking, and I dial, dialing without thinking, calling the one number that matters, calling the only person who can help, and it rings and rings and rings and rings and please, please pick up, please answer, please let me have this one last thing, this one last chance, and I hear the line connect, hear a voice, hear my name, but I don’t have time, don’t have words, don’t have anything except they are here, they are here, they are here and the knock comes again, louder now, more insistent, and my breath is coming too fast, my vision too narrow, and I hear a voice outside saying we know you’re in there, we just want to talk, but we both know that’s a lie, we both know what happens next. I move before I can think, grab my backpack, shove my laptop inside, grab my papers, my passport, my ID, because I do not know if they will still mean anything tomorrow, do not know if I will still mean anything tomorrow, do not know if I will still exist tomorrow, and I am at the window now, looking down at the street, looking at the alley behind my building, looking for a way out, and I hear them at the door, hear the sound of a key in a lock, hear the scrape of metal, hear my own name in a voice that is not mine, in a voice that belongs to the system now, and I do not know what I will do, do not know if I can run, do not know if I can get away, but I know that if I do not move now I will never move again, and I take a breath, take one last breath, take one last moment to exist, and then I am moving, then I am climbing, then I am pushing the window open, and the last thing I hear before I slip out of sight is the sound of the door swinging wide, the sound of boots on my floor, the sound of someone stepping into the space I used to be, and I wonder if they will find anything of me at all, wonder if I was ever really here, wonder if by tomorrow, by next week, by next year, it will be as if I never was, because I have seen the stories, have heard the rumors, have known how this ends, and maybe it already has, maybe it always has, maybe I have been gone this whole time, and I just didn’t know it yet.