I wake up, a quarter past eleven. I never sleep this late. Groggily stumbling down the stairs, my stomach cries aloud and I finally realize how hungry I am. I stalk over to the fridge, but it is void of anything edible, aside from a few condiments and sticks of butter. I must have finished the leftover Thai sometime yesterday, although I could have sworn I was saving it for today. I let out a hungered breath and plop onto the couch, grazing through the stacks of takeout menus on my coffee table. Once I decide on pizza, I call the restaurant and ask for a medium pepperoni. They say it’ll be twenty minutes, but I’m not so sure I can wait that long; it feels like I haven’t eaten in weeks. Why the place is so busy on a Sunday morning, I don’t know…

I turn on the television set and flip through its channels. I think I am the last person in Oregon to solely rely on cable as my source of entertainment, but there’s just something so comforting in hearing the static buzz and trying to make out the fuzzy pictures when you sit too close to the screen. My mom used to scold me all the time, saying my eyes would go crossed and my brain would develop an addiction to pixels. I place my nose an inch from the screen every night, waiting to hear her reprimand. A little part of my heart fades when it never comes. 

There was nothing good on, nothing but cooking shows that would only make me hungrier and informercials about back pain. I toss the remote across the couch, causing it to bounce nearly four inches in the air before hitting the floor. And then, I notice something odd.

There, on my cluttered coffee table, sits a can of orange soda. I try to stay away from soda in general because the caffeine makes me mental, but you would have to tie me to a chair and pour it down my trachea in order for me to drink orange soda. The idea of fruit flavored carbonation just doesn’t sit well with me. I pick up the can; it’s still cool to the touch. It hasn’t been there all night.

But I definitely didn’t put it there.

I moved out of my parents’ house a few years ago, about a month after my mom passed away. I didn’t have the best relationship with my father, and I was an only child, so there was no one there to comfort him after I left. I think he moved to Florida.

The last time I had anyone over, it was around Christmastime, nearly three months ago. Where in the world would this can have come from?

Hesitantly, I pick it up, swirling it around in small circles to see how much is left. It’s not even half empty. I bring it closer to my nose; sure enough, it smells like artificial orange dye. There’s no lipgloss scent or even a stain, and I’ve been wearing the same crimson cherry lipgloss every day for the past month. This isn’t mine. I inch the can closer to my mouth, trying to determine if the taste will bring any memories of the past 24 hours back. I take a sip. Nope. Nothing but its sickening flavor.

Thump. 

As soon as I swallow, something down the hall makes a painfully loud noise; I hope my framed pictures haven’t fallen off the wall again. I stand up and make my way to my craft room, which I’m almost positive is where the sound came from.

I slip inside. The room is dark and cold. I shiver as I see that the window is cracked open. It’s the middle of March. My windows don’t open for at least another two months. I walk over to the window and slam it shut. The tracks need to be oiled soon; it took an unusual amount of force to push the glass closed. The floorboards creak behind me. Directly behind me. I begin turning around, slower than molasses out of dreadful anticipation, hands shaking and heart racing. Then, the doorbell rings. I whip around, but I am standing in the room alone.

My radio jolts to life out of nowhere, sending my limbs into shock. The dial turns by itself, scanning every local station known to man, as the volume keeps increasing, louder and louder. The doorbell rings again. I hit the power button. Silence. “I’m coming!” I yell, bolting to grab my purse. I can’t remember where I left it, so I sprint around the house, entering every room and checking behind every door. The doorbell rings again. 

At long last, I get to the laundry room. I step through the doorway, spotting my purse on top of the dryer. I step towards it, digging around to find some loose cash. I think I find enough, counting as I turn away to step out of the room. But I run into something. Something sharp. Painful. I look down. There’s a knife in my stomach, held by a woman at least a foot taller than me. She yanks it out, blood drizzling down my shirt, all over the wood panels beneath my feet. I crumple, banging my forehead on the corner of the washing machine on the way down.

The doorbell rings again.