Everyone Dies by Danni Meek

There’s a man in my home.

He’s staring out of the large windows, the ones that I sit by and read my books because they’re the only source of natural light on this side of the apartment. The light from the moon almost gives him a glow, making him look vaguely angelic. It’s almost comedic how ironic that is, considering the fact that he’s broken into my home.

Believe it or not, I’d thought about this scenario a lot. Probably too much to be normal, but maybe that was because I was a young woman living alone in a slightly dodgy part of a big city. And, hey, clearly I had good reason to be paranoid because there’s a fucking man in my apartment right now.

To be honest, I pride myself on having a bit of fight in me. Not one to back down or shy away from confrontation. That’s why I always thought that if something like this ever did happen, I’d be a little more prepared.

I watch the documentaries, I heed the warnings – or try to at least. I’ve also seen enough of said documentaries to know that if your attacker isn’t covering their face, it means they’re not worried about you seeing them. They have no intention of you being around long enough to identify them.

As I stand there staring at the back of his head, no mask or balaclava in sight, I realise that I probably couldn’t be much less prepared to fight for my life right now.

My mind goes to the hammer that I keep under my bed. Then, to the knives in my kitchen. They were an expensive gift from my mother last Christmas and every time she visits and insists on cooking, she makes a point of sharpening them.

The tentative plans I’m making in my head are futile. There is no way I’ll be able to make it to either weapon without the intruder seeing me, especially not with the creaky floorboard at the entry of my bedroom behind me. Somehow I’d managed to avoid it when exiting my bedroom the first time, though I don’t really remember doing so, but something told me I wouldn’t be so lucky again.

It was too late now, anyway. The man was turning around.

It feels like an eternity before his eyes reach mine. Feet shuffling on the spot as he turns, his eyes flutter around the room, calmly and casually surveying my dark, dingy apartment without a care.

Our eyes meet for only a second. Then he looks away. There wasn’t a shred of surprise or concern, not a flicker of acknowledgement in his eyes that I was even there.

As his eyes skate past me, I realise that I’m holding my breath. Then, he pauses. He blinks. Then frowns. Then his head whips back to where I’m standing in the shadows of my living room.

My breath comes out in a woosh, like it had been punched out of me.

His jaw hits the floor. Now he’s really looking at me. Stricken, standing there in my pyjamas, hair wild and eyes wide.

“Oh,” He says. It startles a gasp out of me, the sound of his voice cutting through the silence of the night like one of those knives that I wish I was holding right now. “Oh shit.”

Oh shit, he’d said. As if he was surprised to see someone living here.

There’s a silence after that where we both just stare at each other. Both of us mirror the others’ expressions, mouths ajar and eyes unblinking.

Eventually, I find my voice. It’s shaky and weak, but I’m proud of the fact that it’s there at all. “What do you want? What do you want from me?”

“Want? No, I don’t want anything! I’m not going to hurt you, I- Uh, Sorry I’m just… Well, you’ve…” He trails off awkwardly and points at me with a shaky hand. “You’ve uh, got something…”

His hand waves vaguely but his eyes seem to be stuck on my hair. I frown, confusion starting to interrupt my feelings of fear. Feeling oddly self conscious, I go to pat my bedhead down only to freeze when my hand connects to something wet and warm.

I pull my hand away as a gasp steals my breath, but a glance at my now shaking hand reveals nothing. I flip my hand over a few times, searching for an answer, for anything, but find nothing.

Another glance at the strange man in front of me doesn’t give me any answers either but his mouth is pulled down in a sad frown as his own hands now hang loosely at his sides. He’s looking at me with pity. He feels sorry for me.

Without breaking eye contact with him, I cautiously lift my hand to my head once more.

Definitely warm. Definitely wet.

The substance is tangled in my hair. It feels like water but thicker. Almost like…

“Blood,” I whisper.

The man nods.

But that’s impossible. There’s nothing on my hand. I’m not hurt, I’m not in pain, I haven’t been attacked. There is nothing on my hand!

“You-” I begin, pointing a trembling, clean finger at the only person I can imagine to be responsible for this as my breathing starts to speed up.

But he shakes his head. It’s slow at first, then frantic, as he seems to become desperate to convince me. His face is grave and ashen, like he’s watching a car crash but can’t do anything to stop it from happening.

“No, no, it wasn’t me, I swear I…” He pauses and he looks at me so earnestly sad, his eyes even beginning to shine with tears, that I feel compelled to believe him.

“I’m so sorry.” He finally says softly, like he dares not speak any louder in case I shatter into a thousand pieces. I think I might.

He apologises again even quieter, but somehow I really do know he’s not apologising because he’s the one to blame.

I swallow and it tastes like bile. There’s no burning sensation that follows it. “Who are you? What’s going on?”

“You’re- Well, you’re- oh, this is tough. I’ve never had to do this before.” He grimaces, throwing himself down onto the couch. My couch.

“What?” I say through gritted teeth, my confusion and frustration segueing into anger as I watch him put his head in his hands.

“I’ve never had to tell someone this. That they’re…” He gestures to me vaguely with one hand, then tangles it back into his hair next to the other. “Like me.”

“Like you?” I’m losing my patience. I’m looking at his profile as he sits on the couch, comfortable on my furniture but too uncomfortable to look at me. It feels like something has flipped now, like he’s the one on the backfoot. “What the hell does that mean?”

“We’re dead.”

Danni Meek

Image by mhouge from Pixabay – silhouette of a man looking out a window.