A Day in the Life

Chapter 1~ Don't Stop, Never Give Up

     I have two secrets.
    Luckily for me, none of these lame men on Tinder have to know any of those secrets. I mean, it'd definitely scare them away. If men are fish in the sea, then my secrets are Great White Sharks- gosh, am I really just now realizing that name is... patronizing? There's just something a little suspicious to me about the juxtaposed words "Great" and "White."
    One of my secrets is stupid. Just plain silly. Maybe a touch psychotic.
    The other is, well... definitely psychotic.
    Bzzz.
    Marlin sent you a message!
    I click on it.
    "Hey Add me on sc"
    I groan. Thanks Mr. Basic-Guy-On-Tinder number 9067.  Good thing Tinder doesn't send read receipts. Wait. Does it? Why did I download this app? Why did I download any social media apps? Am I supposed to feel connected? I just feel farther away. More isolated. Like I'm deep down in the cold sea and there's no sound. And there's no light. And if there are other creatures I can't see them. Shouldn't I be afraid of those creatures?
    They should be afraid of me.
    I scratch my arm in a moment of hesitation. It's itchy from the healing scratches. Then I press down hard on the stupid red app and delete it. Next goes Snapchat, then Instagram, Twitter, Tumblr, and Pinterest. I even hesitate over Youtube, but I decide to keep that one. That one's a definite necessity to my survival on this planet.
    I mean, we are in a pandemic for Christ's sake. I gotta cut myself some slack.
    I glance at the time and it's almost 3:30pm. I groan again and get up- braless in Seattle. Nah. I wish I lived in a city as big as Seattle. I'm located in Nowhere-ville, California.
Eh, whatever, I don't need a bra. This oversized, stained white shirt will do just fine. So much for first impressions. As I move around my room, I catch a whiff of some serious armpit must. The smell brings me back to the hospital, where they gave us drops of deodorant at a time. It wasn't effective. Everyone there reeked. Despite the flashback, I don't put on any deodorant.
I step over heaps of clothes and find my laptop buried under half eaten bags of chips. I brush them onto the floor and impatiently wait for the macbook to start up. So slow. Come on, come on...
    I hear a distant rustling sound. It doesn't even bother my dumb butt at first, because I think it's some sort of animal. Maybe a mouse. Or a roach. I didn't give it much thought. My laptop finally starts up, and all of my old tabs are popping up like preppy Pop Tarts in a toaster. Then I hear a creaking sound, like a door closing, and I look behind me. Of course there's nothing. I look to my bedroom door. Shut, like usual. Then I hear soft retreating footsteps and I know I'm not that freaking crazy. I get up and jump over the clothes- well I'm not a graceful athlete, so I kinda trip over them, not gonna lie- open my bottom drawer, dig out my butcher's knife, and muster the courage to investigate whoever the hell invaded my house. Could be a thief. Could have a gun. I should call 911!
    I reach for my phone and dial the numbers but am hesitant to actually press the call button. What if I'm overreacting? What if no one is there? What if it's just like- a raccoon or something? The police can suck my toes anyway.
    And if someone is there, and they do have a gun, what the hell do I have to lose? I wasn't really looking forward to going to online therapy anyway. They can also suck my toes.
    My realization calms my panic, but my adrenaline is still pumping through my blood like I'm about to get strapped into the craziest roller coaster in California Adventure.
    Fuck it.
    I toss my phone onto my air mattress, crack open my bedroom door just a bit, and peek out down the hall. I can hear the rustling better. It's coming from inside the bathroom. The bathroom door is open. I didn't leave it open. I left it shut. There really is someone inside this house. Oh my god.
    I kinda stop thinking.
    I swing open my bedroom door and run down the hall, sliding in my fluffy socks to the bathroom.
    A six-foot-something man aims a gun at me. I respond by pulling up my sleeve and slicing the knife down my arm, hard enough to open a recent scar, and draw some blood. The man freezes and watches me. I can't see his expression. He's wearing all black and a black beanie-mask is covering his face. I wonder what his expression looks like. I wonder what he's thinking. I, for sure, am crazier than him. I bet he knows that now.
He has a black duffel bag, on the linoleum floor, full of toilet paper.
    At that I burst out laughing. My laugh sounds abnormal and sharp against the tense silence. My forearm stings.
    Yo, this idiot really just robbed my house for some toilet paper?
At my unpredictable laughing he lifts the gun to my eye-level and puts his finger over the trigger. Perfect.
    "Do it," my voice is coarse, encouraging him. I couldn't get my hand on a gun. Most gun stores were closed now. Even if they were open, I bet the background check would stop them from selling me one. And crap, I'm not even 21 yet.
    "Did you just slit your wrist?" His voice is much deeper than I anticipated, and it holds a tone of surprise. His voice is kinda like woah. Maybe it's because I've gone so long without human contact that isn't through a screen.
    "Did you just rob my house for toilet paper? Lameeee! I don't have disinfectants. I don't have masks. I have canned beans if you want. But I'm out of food other than that." I'm holding in a fart right now too, speaking of beans. This is awkward. "Shoot me or I'll call the police and tell 'em' you're robbing my house." I threaten. I'm not sure if my threat makes sense. But I'm definitely sure I don't care.
    This man literally cocks his head to the side and slowly lowers his gun, his finger moves off the trigger. Tears prickle in my eyes. I aim my knife at him. He should be scared. He should be terrified.
"DO IT!" my voice echoes in a scream. I bet the neighbors hear it.
    "Do what?" He asks in a slow, calculated tone.
    "Shoot me." My voice sounds uncertain and I hate that. It's hard to die.
    "Why?"
    "Why the fuck do I even have to ask you? If I stay alive, I'll snitch to the police that you broke into my house and stole God knows whatever you have in that duffel bag and you'll end up in jail."
    "Call them, then." He says it, like it's so simple. He has some sort of accent. He isn't from here.
They're little holes in his mask, showing his eyes. I notice his eyes are green. He flicks the safety on, then puts the gun in his holster. He zips up the duffel bag. While he does that, I give him an incredulous look. I give him a look that's more than incredulous. I give him a look that's deranged.
    He thinks I'm not a threat. Well, I'll show him.
    I lunge at him with the knife. He swiftly dodges out of the way. I don't know what I expected to happen. Did I think I was Superwoman? I end up falling toward the tub and banging my head on the side of it. "Ow." The knife clangs loudly as it hits the floor.
    He picks up the knife beside me and inspects it. He turns on the sink and cleans the blood off. While he cleans it off, I let out a long, wet fart. It's so embarrassing.
    Kill. Me. Now. I feel like God is actually making fun of me right now.
    He looks at me and I look at him dumbfounded. He laughs a little, like a chuckle, and I start to cry. He stops laughing. My tears hurt, they actually hurt, they feel like acid in my eyes. I swat them away like mosquitoes but they keep coming.
    He rocks awkwardly on his feet, like he's stuck. I'm so angry at him. He should've killed me. I could ruin his life now. I could tell the police. I just tried to kill him with a knife. He should finish me off. What's wrong with him? Why is he just standing there? What type of thief is he? Why won't he take the shit and leave? If I had a rock near me I'd throw it at him. But all I had was a Dove soap bar, and I think that would just make this awkward situation even more awkward.
    I didn't have my phone on me. My dumb butt left it in my room. I wish I could bring my knees to my chest, but I'm too fat to bring my knees to my chest. So I stare out at my chubby, ugly legs and sob.
    To my utter disbelief, this idiot of a man unzips the duffel bag and starts taking the toilet paper out of it. Then toothpaste. And some soap bottles.
    "Usually around this time of day you're sleeping... It's been consistent for a few weeks... What caused the aberration in your schedule today?" He asked. What in the goddamn hell is an "aberration"? This thief is smart? What? I give him another puzzled look. "I mean, you can't cry if you're sleeping right?" he asks, with a sort of hopeful tone in his voice that makes me want to punch him. What the heck is he talking about? Suddenly he's a therapist now? Am I dreaming? It's hard to believe that any of what happened within the past two minutes is real life. Let alone what's happening right now.
    Then it set in. Did he just say "a few weeks?" This guy has been watching me for a month? Creepy af!
    "What are you Edward from Twilight?" I ask in a crackly voice. Terrible joke.
    He's silent. He doesn't get it. "Come on, you've never watched Twilight?" He just gives me that same blank, curious stare. "Pathetic..." I murmur. "See, what you didn't realize is that I have th-" I was going to say therapy, but he doesn't need to know I'm mentally unstable. Wait... "-therapy today for the first time in six months because I finally found someone who's covered by my shitty insurance... Not that you care. Get out of my house."
"Just let me finish unloading these things f-"
"GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!" I scream then spring up with a throbbing headache to claw at his face. This man is quick. He dodges me again, before my fingernails can sink in. I end up jamming my thigh against the toilet. This hurts particularly bad from all the burning wounds on my thighs. I lunge after him again- don't stop, never give up- and he turns to face me. He takes my flailing arms and holds them with comical ease. His physical strength dwarfs mine. It terrifies me. He's touching me. It makes me itchy. He's going to rape me. I take a large inhale. Then I let it go, screaming with all my might, as loud as humanly possible. It rings off the bathroom walls. I envision my voice shaking the leaves off trees and cracking glass windows. It works because he lets go. He yanks up the duffel bag.
He sprints. He's fast. He's so fast that he's a blur of blackness. He's a shadow disappearing. He's gone. What a coward.