So Bobby and I just got done watching the cheesiest movie ever but the mood is literally perfect and here we are making out on the couch and Bobby is making all the right moves and stuff, and then all of a sudden all the lights go out. Jeez. Like, really? Such a cliché if you ask me. But I guess this damn slasher movie has to start somewhere. Lmao. I hate my life.

So anyways Bobby tells me, I’ll go and check it out and I tell him, No stay babe, I’m scared. Coz I have to act all scared shitless and stuff coz God forbid I be a brave young woman in this day and age. And the douchebag leaves me anyways. He says, I’ll be back and goes to check it out. BIG mistake. Didn’t anyone tell him those words are a death sentence? He’ll go to the circuit box in the garage and try to figure out the problem and BAM!–the killer’s jumped up behind him and slit his throat. Lmao. Right now he’s probably choking on his blood somewhere, making a damn mess that my parents will have to clean up later. Anyways, whatever. Serves him right. After all, I’m just a little old helpless girl. How dare he leave me? I’m weak without a manly man to protect me.

So like I’m waiting here all alone in the dark filing my nails and stuff and suddenly I hear these strange noises coming from somewhere in the house. Oh goody. I LOVE being Sherlock Holmes at scary times like this, so I decide to investigate. I mean it’s not like have anything like common sense or anything. So I grab my phone and instead of dialing for help like a normal person would, I use the little torch it has and go toward the scary noise in the kitchen.

Is someone there? I ask, as I take itsy-bitsy steps. Whoever it is, this isn’t funny. I know the killer’s not going to reply, duh, but if I keep talking it’ll kind of tell him where I’m at. That way we can get this over with sooner, kill me before the chase begins. But then dudes like him don’t want willing victims so I just shut my trap and keep moving. Ugh. I hate my life.

So I get to the kitchen and noises have stopped and I kinda half-expect to see Bobby here, but I guess I’ll just forget about him now. He’s totally dead. Lmao. And there’s no one here in fact. So I forget about the noise for now and open the fridge to get myself a drink because the power’s gone and I’m starting to get hot. I pop open a Coke and take a few sips and run ice over my neck and basically do all the things I’m supposed to do so that the killer has enough time to sneak up behind the refrigerator door. And of course when I close the door, BAM!–the dude’s standing there with the ghost mask and the knife dripping with Bobby’s blood and… ugh you get it, the whole shebang. I want to roll my eyes and stuff but that’s not how it goes, so instead I oblige and scream at the top of my lungs, like I would, you know, if you snuck up on little old me. Then I drop the Coke and run like a bat out of hell.

The flooring in my house is hardwood, so I’m running on a perfectly flat surface with great traction, but it is crucial that I trip every two seconds–it’s in my contract, don’t ask. Usually, my coordination is impeccable, and I’m on the track team in school but all of that doesn’t mean squat now. I guess I probably deserve to die. Lmao. I’m so pathetic. The killer’s on my ass too and I’m giving him so many chances to catch up but of course he’s stumbling and crashing into furniture that’s miles away from him. This dude, jeez.

So like I reach the front door and it’s right there and I’m so happy I get to run outside and reach help and safety in a matter of seconds, but the dark staircase going upstairs looks a lot more inviting. Surprisingly, I don’t stumble on the stairs even once.

I try the first door upstairs but it’s locked. I live in this house and nobody else is here tonight but of course it makes perfect sense that all the rooms in the house are locked shut. I try the second door: won’t budge either. I try the third: nada. Fourth: Bingo! Here we go. My bedroom. Awesome.

I shut the door, then drop on my belly and slide under my bed because this is the last place the killer will look for me. Next, I try and shut the torch on my phone but then the battery conveniently dies. Sweet. I can’t call for help, but at least the damn killer won’t know where I am now. Phew.

I jump when the door bangs open, and I can see the bottom of his legs in the doorway and I follow his movements as he waltzes around my room, searching for me in the wardrobe, the bathroom, and then the closet. How dumb is this guy? Jeez. I really want to laugh right now, but I shouldn’t. Ugh. He walks around the bed and I’m almost crying I’m so scared I’ll make a noise, and then BAM!–he drops to the floor and we’re suddenly face to face. And then one more big fat BAM! I wish I could say I punched him on purpose. Scratch that; I did punch him on purpose and it was so totally not a reflex. Lmao. I’ve dazed him a bit, giving me enough time to wiggle out from under the bed and race out of the room. Run run run!

And now, the stairs decide to be a problem after all. I trip and go tumbling and rolling all the way down. Thud! My tongue is licking the floor and I’ve cracked my neck and a broken a few rib bones and I’m bleeding from somewhere I can’t tell, but I’ve got a killer on my tail so I have to get up and keep going. He’s already laughing at me from the top of the stairs. Lunatic. What does he expect me to do? Run toward him? He’s coming at me with a knife, not a Venti Nonfat Latte.

I’m limping now, trying my best to head for back door of the house. The front door is right here though. Should I? Hmm. Nah. It still doesn’t look all that inviting.

I’m really not being that fast to be honest and if you want to know the truth the killer is practically two feet behind me doing the moonwalk. Why won’t he just stab me in the back and kill me off? Oh yeah, I forgot: because he’s sadistic and likes to watch me limp and writhe in agony while I beg, Please Mr. Masked Killer. Don’t kill me. Please. But he just starts clapping his hands like he’s won the lottery or something. Ugh. Whatever. He’s going to hell for this shit so what does it matter?

Anyways so when I get to the back door I see Bobby’s dead body lying there and I scream my yoga pants off. Unfortunately what I don’t see is that puddle of blood. So like it’s supposed to go, I slip on ‘accident’ and knock my head on something or the other by ‘accident’ and nearly pass out.

Then I’m lying on my back and the killer’s finally got me. He straddles me like I’m a horse or something and I’m too beaten up to put up a fight. All I can do is somehow manage to reach up and pull off his mask. You! I say. Why? So it’s this guy, I realize. He’s the killer. Shame I won’t live long enough to warn the others and possibly get him arrested. Lmao. I hate my life.

Jeez this dude still won’t kill me. He just draws it out. He whistles some sick nursery rhyme while he plays with me a little bit, twirling my bloody hair and running the tip of his knife down my cleavage and along my lips and stuff. And of course I’ve got the waterworks going on here and I’m bawling and begging and squirming on the floor, Please, let me go. Please don’t kill me. I won’t tell anybody. I won’t–

BAM! Son of a bitch stabs me right in the heart! Over and over again! About two hundred times actually. No kidding. Give a girl some warning next time, jeez. And I can’t even do anything except lie here and watch him take his own sweet time mutilating me in his own special way. Aww. I hope I’m a special victim for him. So sweet. Maybe that’s why he’s really going for it. Jeez, he’s really not stopping. He’s really getting his rocks off. I mean, come on. I can see my guts and everything. Ew gross.

But anyways whatever so like ten minutes of this crap drags by and this dude still hasn’t finished hacking me to pieces and I feel sorry for him and stuff and then finally, finally, at some point through it all I just get so fed up of this shit I start yawning away and I end up dying of sheer boredom.

About damn time, if you ask me. Lmao!

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© Amaan Khan, 8 February, 2018.