Drabble: Waiting for the Storm to Pass

I’m a Benadryl and some Tylenol down, and I’m groggier than a bear come winter. To be honest, I’ve been feeling pretty sick this last week.

Thunder rolls over the isolated house, the inmates, silent and unresponsive, sit like wax dolls, lifeless save for a periodic relighting of Mr. Anderson’s pipe. The storm assaults the wet earth, flooding the nearby creek. Inside, the well fed fire burns. Not a word, not even a glance, is exchanged among the household. They will wait for the storm to finish, as I will wait, must wait, for the rising of the dawn. Their silence is death to me in that storm oppressed house. I see the lightning flash, a moment of exaggerated shadow, but soon returns the hideous norm.