I slowly make my way downstairs.
Each step I take carefully so as not to make a sound.
I take note of the screen door not closed all the way.
The side table is knocked over.
The stool that once stood next to it knocked over and almost in the kitchen, one of its legs missing.
I kept moving through the house.
I decided turning on lights may alert whatever had entered my home and ruled it out.
Straining my eyes I looked toward the kitchen, outside the window a car passed.
The light from the passing car was enough to see the wasteland the kitchen had become.
The table lay in pieces.
Broken as though something heavy had fallen on it.
The refrigerator door was torn off.
The light, however, was removed.
There was water on the floor and the plastic pitcher had been shattered.
The garbage can was overturned and its contents spilled everywhere.
Only one thing stood out.
The chairs.
They hadn’t been moved and inch.