A Creak in the Floor

When I awoke on the couch the next morning, Oliver was already gone. This was all part of the game; he runs, he hides, I hunt him down. At this point, he could be anywhere and I'm left here, clueless. Fuck this game.

I got up and stretched my back in an arch, satisfied when my vertebrates popped. With a yawn, I headed towards the kitchen for some coffee. I wasn't much of a breakfast person; black coffee would do it for me in the mornings. Oliver, however, loved making breakfast. His favorite food was breakfast food. When we went out to eat on small occasions, we would often pick restaurants that serve both breakfast and dinner all hours of the day, because Oliver loved pancakes and bacon. He would also order a cream cheese bagel and a hot chocolate on the side. He didn't like coffee; he said the taste was so bitter not even sugar could fix it. I loved the bitter taste.

I enjoyed eating out, and I loved all types of food, but when I lived by myself I didn't eat many meals. I often kept snacks around the house and munched on bags of chips or crackers. That was my breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Even now when I'm home alone, I don't cook. I find whatever requires the least possible preparation. I prefer instant food; cooking takes too much time.

I sipped my coffee at the kitchen table, wondering where Oliver might be now. I wasn't stupid enough to chase him; Oliver cared far more about winning than I did, and I knew he would soon come back to kill me when he got impatient. But still, I sat wondering what I would do with myself while I waited.

I wondered if there was any chance of me winning this round. I often lost every game, but dying isn't a pleasant feeling, and I'm getting irritated with this game he plays so well. I sit and I think. This last time he had killed me by decapitation, then buried my body in the dust. The times before that were mostly stab wounds, but he's beginning to get creative.

Obviously he has me beat as far as strength, so I probably won't be able to stab or decapitate him, but carrying a knife with me was still a smart decision. I knew if I were going to kill Oliver, it wouldn't be with any gruesome muscle. I'd have to get creative as well.

I finished my coffee and washed the mug in the sink. I wasn't sure how long Oliver would wait before coming after me, but I would be ready this time. I grabbed a large knife from the kitchen drawer, clutching it tightly in my hand by my side. This weapon wouldn't be leaving me, not even in my bed- especially not in my bed.

I returned to the couch to play a movie before work. Both Oliver and I work from home on laptops as graphic designers for company logos and animations, so we never had to leave. I never had to leave.

I turned the volume of the television down low. I could barely make out the words of the actors and actresses on the screen, but I had to listen carefully to my surroundings. A simple house-settling creak in the floor could mean the end of my life.