Sing A Different Tune (Pt. I)

There was a knock at the door. I looked up from the binder resting on my lap—away from the unsettling collective gaze emanating from its sleeves—and stared vacantly at the wall. What was she plotting?

Earlier today whilst mid-grapple, immersed in a fierce battle with my pilfered collection of cat food, I noticed her approaching in the distance. She was wearing that familiar look of ruthless determination, marching toward my residence with her pistol holstered at her side and her bag slung over her shoulder, swinging from side to side with each step.

I finally managed to slip one of the cans into a rear-naked choke; it struggled for a moment, wriggling in a panicked frenzy as I forced one of my crooked fingers under the pull-tab. Having accepted its fate, I peeled back the seal to reveal its goopy innards, equal parts precious and ungodly.

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The top of the woman's head appeared in the bottom corner of my window as I scooped the hard-earned slop onto the table where Shilah lie in wait. I scratched her brow apologetically and sat beside her, watching as her tongue flicked at the questionable, lumpy mass now before her. The woman's head lingered in my periphery, spying like a nosy neighbor. I did not fear her.

A second series of knocks pulled me from my catatonic state. How unusual... she has watched me for so long and now resolves only to knock upon my door? Hm... perhaps she is attempting to draw me in? The others do seem drawn to noise. Yes, she is probably listening now for my clumsy approach, and once I am near, she will burst through and pin me against the wall with the door. I will have become knife-fodder: a helpless target that can be safely and expediently carved into something resembling the canned excrement I had placed before Shilah only hours before.

I set the binder on the floor and lifted the now-sleeping feline from my lap. She looked up at me groggily as I placed her on the couch then promptly drifted off once more into a peaceful slumber; at least, I'd hoped that it was peaceful. I scratched her brow a final time and made my way toward the door to greet my guest—a scene strikingly similar to my final encounter with Gordon. It is strange, this lack of hesitation. How unusual to have been hiding in a janitor's closet for fear of what might happen to me, only to find myself now voluntarily lowering all defenses for an observed killer. How strange indeed.

I unlocked the door and clutched the doorknob. Alas, whatever happens is what will happen. It is outside of my control. With a turn of my wrist, I opened the door.