A rhythmic songs of thumps pace out as you descend your stair case. With a longing yawn, you fill your lungs with oxygen while groggily rubbing your eyes with your knuckles. As you reach the bottom step, you acknowledge that the smacks you had heard earlier this morning have now increased in decibel, providing a bit of dissonance that wracks your nerves. As you proceed into the living room, you turn your head towards the window and suddenly realize where the noise was emanating from.
Releasing an audible gasp, you stagger backwards, tripping over your feet and landing safely into the embrace of your sofa. Between you and pane of blood smeared glass a pair of hollow and diluted eyes stares at you. They belong to a ghastly looking man dressed in blood soiled attire befitting to that of a farmer. His hands slide down the window, issuing out a squeak as their descent is marked by a smear of scarlet.
Your mind begins to race as a series of questions lash out at you. Who was this unidentified intruder? What the hell is he doing? What is wrong with him? It looks as if he is hurt, and might need help. That would give him proper cause for such actions; still, he isn’t verbal about his plight aside from a projection of distorted moans. You remember you have a first aid kit in the bathroom, should you tend to him and then call 911? Or vice versa?
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