I have returned to the house today and worryingly, nothing has attacked me. I shall bolt my door in case they are saving up for a night ambush in which I will be left dangling, skinless ala Predator from the porch.
I have opened the box to type into, and yet I type something and end up deleting it, which is becoming quite annoying; throughout my entire life I have been fairly good at talking utter trash but when it comes to writing it down it seems to fall apart. Perhaps this is a part of my mind that simply doesn't want any evidence of how my brain works to appear outside of my head for anyone to read. In my mind I imagine a 50 year old man sat at his ebony desk, the reflection of the monitor scrolling up across his Pince-nez glasses. A well worked hand grasps his chin as he frowns. He has seen this before. A phone somewhere is picked up by a black-gloved hand, the answerer glances out of shot and nods.
Ten minutes later I lay stripped bare in the street, a heavy boot clamped on my throat and a 9 millimeter pistol pressed to my forehead.
The camera flicks between us.
The balaclava'd eyes.
A bead of sweat dripping down my temple.
The pistol pointing at my terrified face.
The eyes.
My eyes.
The pistol.
The sweat.
The man closes his eyes and looks away.
Cut to a tree, all the birds therein exploding from it in fright.
A funeral. Noone is there. Heavy rain falls onto the lid of a coffin, an empty can of strongbow resting on it. A clod of earth is thrown down. The camera pans up and meets some pince-nex glasses looking down.
He smiles.
Or does he?
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