What should I have for dinner?

The wind is loud today.

I lounge on a neutral-toned couch and absentmindedly watch the storm through a glass door at the rear of my one-room apartment. The overcast sky colors my room with an array of desaturated shades. I twirl a strand of long, dark hair around my index finger, frowning at the collection of split ends. I’m in desperate need of a trim. A girl needs to keep up her appearance, or so they say. I return my attention to the outdoors.

Tree branches bend at unnatural angles, and I can’t help but imagine the flailing twigs as human body parts—dismembered arms dancing in the wind, a human neck pulled taut by an unseen force, one moment away from tearing…

Knock. Knock. Knock.

I turn my head idly, eyes unfocused. The front door is located behind me. I sigh. That’s one downside to living on the first floor, I’m always the initial stop for door-to-door advertisers. For a moment, I consider pretending I’m not home. However, as the wind gives a mighty roar, I decide to humor the poor fellow. Working in a storm shows dedication. I respect that.

I walk to the front of my apartment in about three seconds and open the door, not bothering to paint a fake smile on my face. To my dismay, my lack of formalities goes unnoticed. No one is there. I crane my neck out the entryway, looking left, then right. Nothing. I shrug and close the door. Perhaps, I imagined it.

I turn around, contemplating what I should make for dinner, when I notice it—a towering figure standing outside, just beyond the glass door. It is clothed in black from head to toe, resembling a physical manifestation of a shadow. Its arms point downwards, and the spaces between its arms, legs, and fingers are all splayed in 45 degree angles. It is completely motionless, which is impressive considering the aggressive winds. I cock my head in curiosity.

“Interesting,” I note aloud.

I remain still for a moment and then sprint towards the dark figure. I smile wickedly, trying to gauge its reaction. It remains frozen.

“Interesting,” I repeat.

Up close, I can now see that the figure is not alive. It’s a mannequin with sandbags securing its feet. As if on cue, I hear my front door open. Oops, I forgot to lock it.

I turn around nonchalantly, just in time to see a serious-eyed man charging towards me. He has a knife at my throat in seconds.

“You’re dead, bit—,” he chokes on his last word. The syllables dribble from his mouth like the blood now pouring from his chest. His eyes grow round as he notices the knife protruding from his body, my hand securely on the hilt. I always keep a concealed weapon up my sleeve.

“Nice try, honey,” I purr in a sugar-coated tone, effortlessly disarming him, “I’ll give you some points for creativity though. Loved the theatrics! The mannequin was a nice touch.”

Disbelief and terror highlight his gaping features until I twist the knife deeper. Then, death finally collects the light in his eyes. I push the heavy body to the floor in mild annoyance. Another perfectly good sweater marred by bloodstains. I meticulously clean my knife’s blade and roll up my left sleeve. Grinning, I carve a diagonal dash across four healed tick marks on my upper arm.

“Guess that makes…” I pause, counting the groupings of five, “Twenty. I wonder who’s going to show up next.”

They have been trying to kill me for years now. I don’t mind though. It’s fun, like a game.

I sigh and collapse on the couch once more, observing the tortured trees shuddering behind the ever-watching mannequin. I guess I’ll have to move again.

I shift my attention to my hands and analyze the deep red hue, warmth, iron-tinged aroma, and stickiness of the man’s blood. My eyes widen in realization, and I gasp, straightening my back.

“That’s it. I’ll have spaghetti for dinner!”