PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

There is quite possibly nothing better than the hot water running down your back while taking a shower after the hardest day of work you have ever been through. And at this moment, even with just the memory of said water running down the tense muscles of my back I can attest, vehemently.

Even with the shampoo that decided to land in my eye and the cut I accidently made while shaving, that had to have been to be the best part of my day.

So when the first sound of banging on my front door sounded me out of my meditation state of mind, I decided it wasn’t worth the time to wonder if I should answer it. Even when it sounded like my cat knocked over almost everything in my small kitchen, I ignored it once more. That is about the time noises that I couldn’t ignore started.

The high pitched voices that I was able to almost convince myself was just my mind making fun of me for having such a stupid fear as being scared of being killed in the shower.

Seriously, how lame is that?

Then, the shadows that moved in and out of the sides of my vision, and, what sounded like the breaking of glass right outside of the bathroom door.

‘There is obviously a logical explanation and it ends with me killing my cat for making a mess and almost making me get out of the shower.’

Even through my explaining to myself, my body went into panic and survival mode. Every rustle of the shower curtain and drip of the water onto the tiled bottom of the tub made me jump and cringe.

I turned off the shower, barely able to keep it on long enough to get the shampoo out of my hair.

In a moment of hysteria I thought it was quite funny, and that the killer (For surely that is the only answer at this point.) must be shy in order to not have attacked me in the shower already. A modest killer, that’s new.

I dressed, and after what felt like hours of staring at the closed bathroom door gathered the courage to open the darn thing.

This was about the time it hit me pretty hard that it wasn’t my mind playing petty tricks on me. Expanding from the threshold of the bathroom to about a five foot radius all around was broken glass. There was no room to walk, in any direction.

I was confined to the bathroom, or condemned to walk all over the broken glass. This should not have been as hard a choice as I made it to be in my head.

Looking back, as I am now, walking over the glass wasn’t my smartest move. But being confined to a room with a broken lock wasn’t the best option in my mind.

So I walked over the glass and I don’t remember screaming, but my throat was sore and my face was wet with tears when I hit the other side. I couldn’t even walk anymore. I just lay on my side and in a sick, morbid, numb way I watched the blood pour out of my feet. The pain was gone and I was laughing.

I laughed.

I laughed when he came around the corner and stalked towards me, knife held high.

Harder still, I laughed as my throat was cut and blood chocked my laughter.

And I laugh now as I write this for you. Because laughter is easier to handle, because you can’t cry if you are a ghost, because I don’t want to believe.

I laugh because I’m dead.