Shutting the T.V off with the click of a button, the screen fades to black, leaving you with the muffled chirps of crickets. Your eyes heavy, fatigue sweetly tells you to set them down to rest. Content with darkness, you fall into slumber, a rest ever so desired by the weary.
You are roused from your sleep by the squeek of a naked palm running across your living room window. Your vision blurry, you let out a groan as you lift your body from comfortable shackles of sleep. Birds chirp in the background, setting a melodious ambient tone, highlighting peace and uprising. That pleasantness is quickly shattered by the the loud thump of a hand smashing across your window. Instinctively, you shoot a glance towards the sound, your eyes widening as your ocular perception adjusts to the ghastly view before you.
A man stands outside your window, looking in at you with a pair of pale blue eyes. His form leans against your window and it's wooden frame. A crimson soaked wife beater adorns his upper torso, above it a deep tear in his neck. He appears extremely pallid, his face void of emotion. With a shrill and distant cry, his smashes his hand against the window once more, causing the glass to shift against the assualt. Oddly enough, it looks as if he has stopped bleeding from the wound on his neck. Either way, this man is hurt, and it looks as if he needs help.
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