How exactly am I supposed to go to sleep with a murderer on my couch?

That was the question I was repeatedly asking myself silently that night, as I sat up in my bed, the comforter wrapped around my shoulders like a shroud, my eyes trained on the door to my bedroom.

Easy answer, you don’t.

I must have dozed off sometime however, because all the sudden I was blinking awake to muted sunlight from beyond my curtains, Balthazar already up and blinking at me.

Please tell me it was all just an awful dream.

Unfortunately, I immediately knew it wasn’t a dream for several reasons. One of them being that I had fallen asleep in my sitting up position, and now my body felt completely broken. Secondly, all I had to do was glance at my doorknob to see that it was still locked from last night, a precaution that had brought me very little reassurance.

A quick look at the digital alarm clock on my dresser told me it was 7:38 in the morning, which meant I had gotten roughly four hours of sleep. Fantastic.

Balthazar, seeing that I was up and moving, flicked his tongue at me angrily, obviously wondering why on earth I hadn’t gotten up to feed him already.

“Sorry, buddy. It’s been one hell of a night,” I muttered aloud to him, sliding out of bed and wincing as my joints protested.

I fed Balthazar, then spent the next ten minutes anxiously pacing in front of my door, getting steadily more hungry, and steadily more reluctant to leave the safety of my bedroom.

But unfortunately, my body requires silly things like food and water, so I eventually had to unlock my knob, very slowly open the door, then slip out like it was 2 am and I was a teenager.

At the end of my hallway, I could just see the right arm of the couch, and I could see black hair falling over the edge of it.

I wonder who that could be.

Sarcasm is not conveyed well over thoughts.

Shut up.

I walked down the hallway as quietly as I could, which was, to say, not quietly at all.

The second I walked into view he turned his head from where he was lying horizontally on the couch, looked at me, and smirked before saying, “Nice PJs.”

I looked down at myself. I hadn’t thought twice about leaving my bedroom in my pajamas, since I stayed in my pajamas most of the day anyway. But I suddenly felt very defensive about my fuzzy blue pants and faded t-shirt which read, “This is a Tea-Shirt” with a bag of tea next to it.

My instinctive response was to stutter a “Fuck you,” but I found myself only avoiding his eyes and staying silent instead.

It’s amazing how you’ve managed to become even more of a coward.

Shut up. I just don’t have a death wish, idiot.

I walked into the kitchen, trying to ignore how increasingly stupid I felt in my bright blue fluffy pajama bottoms. I heard a loud sigh from the couch, and I instinctively flinched slightly, years of habits coming back to me as I simply opened my fridge.

“Come on, don’t be like that, I was only joking. Your pajamas look great.” The last sentence was significantly closer than the others, and I could tell he was a lot closer behind me than he had been before.

I tried to nonchalantly turn around, and sure enough, he was leaning against my counter, the same smirk from yesterday plastered on his face. I jerked back, even though I tried to make it not as noticeable as possible.

I was gripping the milk a little too tightly, and I turned away from him in order to open up my cabinet and grab a cup, still without saying a word. I couldn’t think of anything to say, and my brain was short-circuiting trying to figure out how I was supposed to interact with the wanted guy leaning up against my kitchen countertops.

Like yesterday, I simply did nothing, or in this case, said nothing. I just turned silently to the cabinet to grab my daily pill, and it was quiet as I rattled the container back closed.

“Are you just going to pretend that I’m not even here? That’s rather rude, you know.” I turned back around, my fingers fidgeting together again.

No, what’s rude is forcing yourself into people’s homes, but I guess you happened to miss that one.

Of course, this is not at all what I said, and what came out of my mouth instead was, “I d-don’t know.”

Brilliant, I know.

My face grew warm, and it was silent until he finally said, “Alright then. While you’re deciding, how about you tell me your name.”

The way he said it sounded more like a demand than a request, and I faced away from him, reaching up to open a cabinet while answering, “Theo.”

I didn’t stutter that time!

That was a one-word reply. Not much of an accomplishment.

Shut up.

As I grabbed a shiny packet of poptarts from the box, my breakfast of choice, I technically broached conversation for the first time by asking, “And, um, yours?”

Ha! Technically didn’t stutter.

You have some low standards, you know.

I turned back around only to find him studying me in silence. Finally, he grinned, stuck out his hand, and said, “Nice to meet you, Theo, I’m Melve.”