I am in introvert. I feed off of my own solitude. For some reason, being alone makes me comfortable. It’s peace and quiet. I could focus on whatever task is at hand. But there are some moments when I wish I wasn’t alone, or at least knew if someone was there. This story is about someone alone in the house. I’ll let the story speak for itself. It goes like this…
Here I lay, all snuggled up in bed, warm and satisfied under the soft silk covers, watching some stupid documentary on TV I’d never heard of. I’d turn it over, but the gallon tub of cookie dough ice cream wouldn’t let me use my hands for anything other than shovelling the frozen treat into my mouth. Nights like these are rare, it isn’t often that everyone’s out of the house but me, so I make sure to savour them, in fact, I wasn’t expecting anyone back till the morning. That’s what made the sound of the door opening downstairs so alarming.
Panic hits me like a steam train, I silently leap out from under the covers, spilling the ice cream all over the pristine white carpet on the floor, and creak open the wardrobe next to the bed. I hear footsteps, heavy and indiscreet, like they want me to know they’re here. I pant, and pick up the spoon I had just been using to enjoy a relaxing night. The footsteps get louder, I force myself into the miniscule space remaining in the wardrobe, and close the door, just as the stranger opens the bedroom door, not sparing any seconds for silence.
I peer through the gap, his face looks familiar, but I can’t place my finger on where I know him from. He spots the spilled ice cream, and darts his head across the wide expanse of the bedroom.
“Hello?” he calls, not sounding vicious, but I’ve made that mistake before. Never, under any circumstances, assume friendliness from a voice.
He looks under the bed. Oh crap, he’s looking for someone. I hold back a whimper, and start bending the bowl of the spoon back and forth, hoping to snap it off and create some way of defending myself. It snaps, but it creates a metallic click, the man turns his head around, and makes his way to the wardrobe, I’m shaking now. Please don’t open it, please don’t open it, please don’t open it!
The door swings open, and he sees me, we scream simultaneously in fear and surprise. Without hesitation, I leap onto the man, and start digging into whatever stretch of flesh I can with the sharp edge of the spoon handle, he screeches in clear pain, but I won’t stop, I hammer the handle deep into his chest and neck, over and over, till he becomes motionless. I’ve killed him.
I cry in disgust, and sprint downstairs and away from the house, I charge down the road until I feel like I’m far enough away. I sit down for a moment, and exhale heavily before regaining my composure. Pulling out my phone, I open Twitter and search #babysitter, hopefully this time, I’ll find a household that isn’t lying when they say they’ll be out all night.