Something Changes

When I looked out at the living room, I noticed that the door was wide open. It hadn't been kicked down; it looked as if someone else had gone over to it and unlocked it. On one hand, I madly wanted to slam it shut and lock it. On the other, I realized that would trap me in here with it.

..then I looked in the mirror one last time. I didn't see any tall men or even any creatures formerly called "men." I only saw a quickly-aging woman on the verge of tears, the bags under her eyes telling of a lot more than just lack of sleep. She'd been suffering far too long. I didn't need to look at her pale skin in order to see that.

"Enough is enough."

As I stumbled towards my living room door, I saw out of the corner of my eye movement at the top of the stairs. I slammed the door shut and locked it.

And then I shouted.

"I didn't lock myself in here with you, asshole. I locked you in here with me."

And then I stumbled over to the light switch and turned it off. The only light was at the stairs overlooking the front door. I was in darkness, gripping my pistol with the single most steady hand I had ever seen myself using.

"And you've stumbled upon Hell's yard, where Satan, herself, is ready to introduce you to a little thing called the fists of your childhood pain."

I heard him stepping down the stairs. I felt nervous as hell, but I wasn't showing a drop of it beyond my talking more than usual.

"Of course, you may be more accustomed to Satan's fucking pistol. Well, don't worry! You'll get to see that again, too."

I saw his fucking shadow.

"But when Satan's pistol's done, her fists are gonna have their way with you. So dress nicely. Show some fucking respect."

I saw a leg.

"Good thing you're already dressed for the occasion. Isn't that sweet?"

I saw a torso. I suddenly got an idea.

"Hey, you love fucking with the police, don't you? You love it. You even go as far as to never showing yourself to them when I'm desperately begging them to see you."

He stepped a little further down; I could almost see his head. I reached to the table next to me and grabbed my camera.

"Well, how about I show you what it's like? How about you smile for the camera, how about you smile for death?"

I was completely ready to die. The photograph would have merely been a photograph of my killer, perfect evidence. Here he was, coming down the stairs, making it all too easy.

"So step on down, let's see them pearly whites of yours."

He stopped on one stair, and then I took my picture.

And then his face changed. No longer was he the bearded redhead; in a fraction of a second, his face had morphed into the lanky blonde thing, his lips scratching away, and his eyes blinking rapidly fast.

And before I had a chance to take another picture, I wound up firing my gun.