I looked at my open door in wonder. I was uncertain if I had left it unlocked. The possibility was strong, it happens, rushing about and what not, or I just forgot. Uncertain about locking it, sure, but I was certain at the very least I had shut the damn thing. Here it be open before me, not widely so, just open. A crack, a sliver of a gap, enough to let the bugs in for sure. Flies would be a problem now, I would probably have to spend too much time hunting them down and slaughtering them. Mountain living has its down sides.

I knew I had closed it. This I was certain of now. My hatred of fly murder settled that. So, that meant someone else had. But who? It wasn’t one of my brothers. Our mother had beaten such carelessness out of us long ago. Even if one of my brothers had dropped by, the door would be closed. My underwear may be pulled out of my drawer and strewn across my living, but the damn door would be closed.

A prick of fear nuzzled into my brain. The silly kind, the little bit that sees a lurking masked figure wielding a knife in harmless shadows after a scary movie. There it be, settled firmly in place, ready to cause my heart to jump at the slightest creaking of floorboards. I did my best to ignore it and pushed my door further open. I also did my best not to drop into some kind of half assed martial arts pose-- barely.

My living room was fine, bachelor clean, not messy, but not spotless. Also lacking any haphazardly throw about underwear. It seems the cloth for my loins was safe in my drawer, or just flung upon my clean dishes. Brothers can be douches.

Everything seemed in order. Nothing missing and therefore stolen. The same for the other rooms, which I found out after my bad impression of a TV show cop searching a house for a murderer. I resisted yelling “CLEAR!” after checking each room. Despite this I could not shake the feeling of eyes on me, that weird unsettled prodding in brain. Perhaps it was that lizard part on my mind, the deep uncivilized bit that we forget about that just tries to survive.

I took a few slow breathes, doing my best to kill the unease and clam my heart. It didn’t work. My hackles were raised. I decided I needed a drink and went to the kitchen, whiskey was necessary.

I passed the simple threshold and entered my small kitchen, dirty dishes plagued my vision and the trash begged to be taken out. I ignore both and went for the good stuff. But I found myself stopped midway and nearly messing my pants. A simple small scrap of paper lay upon my counter top. It looked like it had been torn off my scratch pad. I didn’t recognize the hand writing. I could never really place someone to their scrawl, but I would know if it felt familiar. This didn’t. It was neat, pretty even, the slow practiced hand of someone sure of themselves and their skill at the pen. That definitely struck out my brothers playing some elaborate joke. Our mother always complained that we had the handwriting of a drunken toddler.

I am coming for you

Ominous, and stupidly so. The note was bad thriller or B movie horror cartoon villainy. I mean, what sane person leaves such a note behind? It was silly. Thinking these things didn’t help shake the unease though.

I don’t know if it would have been worse or just insanely funny if it had been written in blood or pinned to my counter with a knife. Maybe that would have been too cheesy and whoever wrote it had enough sense not to go that far.

I decide that drinking at home, alone, would do me no good. I needed to get a proper drunk on, and it needed to be public. So I turned my scared ass around and walked out the front door. I locked it and also checked it, three times. As I took the first step on my porch I froze. Like a deer in the head lights. I couldn’t explain it. The hair on my neck stood on end, it had happened so fast I half expected them out jump out and bail. A cold hard shiver racked my body and I sat down unable to keep the strength in my knees.

I didn’t feel it at first. It was just difficult to breath. Like someone was standing my chest. My shirt felt warm and wet. When I looked down, I saw the blood. At some point, I had heard the gun shot. I don’t know when, but my brain processed the information in an odd detached way. It told me it was a high powered rifle and the shot had been done at a distance. The bullet came first, the sound of its passage came screaming behind with a loud crack. People forget that, when you’re near a rifle going off, it’s an ear shattering bang. But from a distance you hear the crack, a sonic boom as the bullet travels faster than the speed of sound. If another shot had rung out I may have been able to place the shooter, but as it stood I couldn't even move anymore. I lay down on my wood porch and slept. I wanted to go out and drink, to put myself at ease. But I ended up just napping on my front stoop, sober and alone.

I also shat myself.

My next move is simple but starts with a laugh. Then I prepare my self a glass of wine while scrolling through a small playlist of jhene aiko. I press play then cock back my gun then head to my living room with wine glass/bottle and gun in hand. Last but not least, I wait patiently while whomever runs through their confused mind about coming out of where ever they are or simply just leaving.