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“Hello?”
Even the sound of my own voice seemed scary. In my own home.
“Anyone still here?”
I flipped the switch, and the overhead fluorescents flickered on. One of the bulbs refused to catch though. It sat there fluttering darkly, maybe ten-percent illuminated. The lack of any real light made my kitchen seem even more dreary and depressing than normal.
“You’re probably pretty disappointed,” I called out, still talking to my phantom intruder, “and I can’t blame you. Nothing much to steal here, I’m afraid. Unless you want that stack of bills over on my—”
I whirled into the living room, flipping that switch too. The lights came on. Everything seemed okay.
“If you’re in my bedroom that’s even more disappointing,” I continued, creeping along. “Not much going on in there, either. Unfortunately…”
Halfway through the kitchen I grabbed it: the sawed-off baseball bat I’d found in the crawlspace. It wasn’t much, but it was definitely better than nothing. The tape-wrapped handle felt heavy and reassuring in my hand.
“If you want out by now, I can’t say I blame you. I’ll just step aside, and you’ve got a clear shot to the front door…”
I pushed on the bedroom door, then hugged the wall. Nothing happened. The world was silent, except for the constant buzz of insects.
“Alright,” I said, overly loudly. “If you’re still here, and you’re still looking for trouble I’m—”
Mid-sentence I whirled, spinning into the room. Looking quickly in every direction at once, I held the baton that used to be a baseball bat out before me.
Nothing.
Carefully I checked my little bathroom, even drawing back the mildewed shower curtain where every serial killer in the world ever hid. Still nothing. The place was empty.
“Whew.”
My shoulders slumped in relief… and then I noticed it. It should’ve been obvious when I first came in, but I’d been preoccupied with other things. But now that I did see it? My heart sank.
“Awww…”
My bed was nothing but a box spring. My entire mattress was gone.
“MotherFUCKER.”
Dropping the baton I made my way into the kitchen, wondering if I would call the police. The irony of the situation made me laugh bitterly, as I opened the fridge to at least salvage the night with a few beers.
Only my beers were gone too.
I threw my head to the flaking ceiling and laughed.
“Perfect.”
I’d only had a six-pack, but at least it was my six-pack. And now it was someone else’s. Someone presumably enjoying it from the comfort of my own mattress, snuggled up beneath thirty-d
ollars’ worth of Walmart bedding.
What else did they take?
I glanced into the tiny living area to see my television was still there. Only it was cracked now, the frame broken. Someone had apparently destroyed it while trying to pull it off the wall.
“It’s a removable mount, jackass,” I sighed to no one in particular. “You pull the string behind it and lift. It’s not rocket science. It’s not like—”
CLINK.
A noise from over my shoulder caused me to whirl in panic. I spun around, gripping my weapon. Ready to defend the very last of my worldly possessions — the coffee maker maybe, if it was still there — while willing myself to feel anymore more than apathy and defeat.
