A Gut-Wrenching Tale

Reclining on the couch, she lazily clicks the channel up button while pondering what might happen if anyone were to channel surf using the down button instead, though she's still too disinterested to give it a try. Her head is angled against the crevice between two cushions, leaving a slight indentation on her face from the seam. She hears the door open behind her, but pretends as though she hasn't, waiting for her roommate to initiate a greeting instead. After ten seconds pass without a hello, irritated, she peers her head over the couch to confront her roommate as to why she's being snubbed.

A masked figure, lacking the breasts necessary to be her roommate, clomps aimlessly, apparently searching for something. She ducks her head back down against a cushion, hoping she hadn't been spotted. Petrified with fear, her hand goes limp, causing the remote control to crash against the hardwood floor below; the resulting noise is audible over the television's, prompting the masked figure to approach the couch. In the following seconds, her head fills with regrets. She regrets not locking her door. She regrets deciding to let her cellphone die, unwilling to stand up and walk the four feet to plug it in. She regrets that she hadn't pressed the channel up button at least one more time so that the last thing on television she might ever watch is anything other than a golf tournament.

As she looks toward the ceiling trying to regulate her breathing, the masked face appears above her, staring at her with evil eyes. Though the mask obscures his eyes, she just knows they must be evil. She contemplates letting out a scream, but thinks it too cliche. They each wait for the other to make the first move. After thirty uneventful seconds pass, she contemplates getting up to plug her in phone, or at least flipping the channel.

When she doesn't attempt to flee as he expects, he figures he has to do something more intimidating. He reaches out to grab her with his hands, one palm noticeably hairier than the other. She kicks upward at him with her left leg, the sudden motion sending her flip-flop airborne. The sandal in his masked face does little to deter him. He touches her awkwardly and delicately, trying to demonstrate that his intentions are violent and not sexual. She slaps the less hairy of his palms until his grip loosens and she flees from the couch.

The lack of equilibrium from wearing only one flip-flop causes her to fall after racing just a few steps away. The masked figure successfully corners her, leaving her unable to access either exit. Bravely, she stands up, wanting to face her assailant rather than meet her fate lying down; for once, her mother would be proud of her posture.

From his pocket, the masked figure removes a knife. Realizing this spelled almost certain doom, she contemplates throwing her remaining sandal at him as some sort of last moral victory. He interrupts her line of thought with a gruff remark.

"I'm going to stab you in the tummy."

Her heavy breaths of terror transform into laughter. "What did you say?" she asks.

The masked figure begins to jitter, confused by this response, but makes sure to make his voice even more harsh this time. "I said, 'I'm going to stab you in the stomach.'"

"No you didn't. You said, 'I'm going to stab you in the tummy.'" She refuses to stifle her laughter, repeating between giggles, "In the tummy."

"I... look... I'm not kidding... I..." he stutters.

Embarrassed, the masked figure exits, never to return.