Thursday, 16 June 2011

He attacked me! The lab technician, the crazy one? I have know idea how he found me, but he attacked me.

I decided I'd had enough of sneaking around in old, muddy clothes, so, guessing that my family would be out of the house, I used my key to get in. I showered and changed. After over a week of not even having changed clothes, hot water against my skin and a fresh pair of jeans was heaven. I found myself waiting around for the rain to stop, drifting off in front of the television, sinking into the warm, comfortable sofa.

The next thing I knew, it was 22:20. I'd drifted off. No-one was home yet. Odd.

Figuring I should take advantage of this, I went into the kitchen to get something to eat. A window smashed in the lounge, right where I just was. HE doesn't do that. I grabbed a knife and, holding it behind my back, and I crept back down the hallway. Hopefully the sudden appearance of a guy with a knife will frighten off the intruder - I had no desire to get in a fight.

A man came out of the doorway. He had cloth taped with parcel tape around his head, covering his face. He was holding a knife as well, the store tag still on the handle. It was him. Armed. Dangerous.

"...where's the bitch's squeeze, cut him good, give him right to him, spare me, save me from him..."

He jerked his head around and stared right at me. He smacked his lips and brought his knife around in front of him. I did the same. Undeterred, he lunged clumsily at me. I leapt backwards and ran to the downstairs bathroom, slamming the door and locking it tight. Slams against the other side. It wouldn't hold for long. I grabbed the heaviest thing in the room; the heavy ceramic lid of the toilet cistern. Standing beside the door, I raised it over my head. The door fell with a crash as he smashed into it, shoulder first, knife arm behind him. I brought it down on his head.

There was a loud, dull thud and he fell, the weight of the lid having come down entirely on the top of his head. Writhing on the ground, his lips moved faster.

"...he's seen him, he knows him, he wants him, spare me, he'll spare me, oh what a gift..."

He reaches for the knife. Kicking it out of the way, I pulled at the cloth wrapped crudely around his head. He screamed and shoved my hand away, crawling out of the door.

"...not my face not my face not my face..."

He was in a bad way. The cloth was rapidly turning red from where he was hit, and as he crawled he started to cough violently. Picking up his knife and grabbing mine from the sink, I proceeded to jump over him and run downstairs. I grabbed my bag and ran outside into the dark street.

A presence. He was there and He was close.

I ran.

I've moved into the Meads area. Knife under my t-shirt, tucked into my jeans. It isn't comforting me.

He's close. Even now.

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