Mad It's a dark night. There is a drip coming from somewhere. The door is locked but I was careless, too lazy to check the windows. The news had warned me but I still didn't take all the precautions. I had walked straight into this. There was a mad man on the loose. The presenter on BBC had said he was dangerous. It had to be that night, the one night when my parents were out, the one night when my brother was away. I was alone. The dripping comes again, from the bathroom I think. Even just the creaky floorboards make me nervous. This is the most frightened I've ever been. I pad across the hall to the bathroom door which is slightly ajar. Slowly, I raise my hand to the painted wood and give it the most gentle push. My jaw drops in shock. The window is wide open, the curtains billowing in the breeze. And I finally see the source of the dripping. A thick liquid is leaking off the window ledge onto the tiled floor, thicker than water, thinner than oil. Blood. A soft thud comes from behind me. Fast as lightning I slam the door shut and turn the lock. Then I rush to the window, lock it and close the curtains. Sitting against the door, I cry. I cry for my #life. And eventually I cry myself to sleep. To death.