Death knocked and I answered

The city was alive amid the harsh down pour of the storm. A few cars drove past by the complex, their glares flashed on his window which usually outlooked the buildings and structures of the eastern side of the metropolis, bright neon and dazzling lights complimented every skyscraper, but in his eyes they were only a blurred glow, like tiny circular objects which were colored in different shades. Sound of rain pelted 1lagainst the glass of his window resonated through his ears. He turned away from the unclear scene, eyes blending in with the mist, a blaring warning of a migraine setting off behind his head. With a sigh, he grabbed the remote lying on the sill and turned the movie volume higher to drown the noise of the rain.

It was a rather lonely and cold evening for a twenty something boy who lived in apartment 309. He was now seated on the worn-out couch that looked like it had seen better days in front of a huge flat screen television, currently playing Titanic in 75, because he doesn't like setting the volume with numbers that didn't in the number five.

All the lights had been switched off after he washed the dishes (he actually washed them) and swept the floor with a broomstick (yeah, his step-mom stopped by to rant about her husband, his own father, who wasn't always home. She demanded to clean his house for her. His house). And after a twenty minute long of staring at the world through his stupid window which didn't let him see a thing, he opted for wasting the night with a classic in the middle of his lifeless living room.

An invisible gust hit him right in his left chest, a pang of loneliness resurfaced from the inky tar that he thought was supposed to be his heart. It happened two weeks ago and since then, it became an everyday routine. Agonizing pain of emotional neglect clung in to every tip of his fiber, like a fist made its way through his ribs and squeezed his heart so tight he was confused why it hadn't shattered. He had always been told he carried such fragile organ. Metaphorically speaking, of course. He was healthy as a caged bird that sat alone behind bars. Being fed daily, taken care of delicately, and yet couldn't attain a freedom to set its wings wide and fly.

It had been like this for the past three years. Alone, isolated from the rest of the world, trapped inside his apartment he couldn't call his home. He should be used to it by now, yet he wasn't. Had something became wrong? Surely, there shouldn't be. He familiarized himself into being lone wolf. And a lone wolf never suffer from the miserable damnation it set itself into.

But why? Why indeed, he doesn't know.

The abject fear of being imprisoned by his own mind had always been unsettling. But it was happening now, and he refused to accept that. He wasn't like...that. He liked to think he was a lot stronger than his friends, his batchmates, anyone that he knew that might carry such disease.

Disease. Ah. Funny word.

He wanted to cry, he wanted to shout a big 'fuck you' to the rest of the world and curl atop his bed with his silly blanket covering him whole as if it could protect him from anything cruel and harsh coming his way. He wanted to end everything despite the good people and things happening around him. He had never feared death, for death is an escape, a relief. 

As Jack and Rose ran around the lower level of the ship, with those stupid smiley faces and eyes adorned with whipped-ness while men (slaves) worked their asses off to burn coals, and as he succumbed to the darkness his mind had offered, to the black path that leads to the damness of his soul, a loud bang! echoed inside the whole house.

Normally, he'd jump out of his wits. But this wasn't normally. He doesn't get depressed normally. Not him. Pausing the movie, he stood up and made his way towards the kitchen.ad towards the direction of the unexpected noise, though he was still trying to escape the haze his mind draped over him.

It came from the kitchen. His eyes were greeted by an endless pit of darkness (no it was just because he turned all the lights off). The floor was hard and cold under his bare soles. The temperature inside the room dropped, must be because the heater was a nasty motherfucker who enjoyed seeing him suffer in the cold and was possibly waiting for him to die from hypothermia. Stupid ass garage sale. He swore he would never go shopping with his step-mother again.

A brush of cold air swirled around the living room, sent a shiver down his spine, making him momentarily forget his depressing thoughts. Goosebumps broke down on his skin as the small hairs at the back of his neck stood. It was cold, very cold. Like It's-my-first-time-in-Antarctica type of cold.

His eyes soon adjusted to the darkness ahead of him and he could make out the light switch inside the kitchen. One step, he exhaled, and a puff of smoke came out of his mouth. Two steps and his body felt being dunk in a bath of ice cubes. Three more steps and -

Someone just rang his doorbell. He whipped his head towards the direction of the new sound. He doesn't get someone often to ring his doorbell. And definitely not at midnight.

He looked at the kitchen once more before heaving a sigh.

"Coming!" He yelled, afraid whoever it was on the other side would think he was a lazy dumbass. But seriously, who would knock at his door in late evening while raining?

His bare feet strolled the cold wooden floor towards the door as his hand switched the lights on in the hallway, pupils adjusting to the brightness.

Those are really bright. I need to replace them as soon as possible.

His hand reached the doorknob and was about to twist it open when another surprising bang! bounced off the walls of the apartment. It was from the kitchen but it sounded near, as if it was walking up to him and waiting for a right moment to kick him in the shin and slit his throat.

Wouldn't that be surprising. He thought as he contemplated whether to check whatever the heck was falling inside his messed up kitchen and if it was a murderer, meh. He could careless about a murderer or a psychopath. They could kill him all they want and he would never give a fuck. It's better to be killed than to kill. And, in fact, he would rather be dead than deal with the thoughts swarming inside his mind, unlocking unwanted memories and traumas, and possibly a nameless emotion which could potentially kill him slowly by eating what morals and self-values he had left.

Another ring of the bell pulled him out of his trance. He let out a groan and decided to open the door first. He could deal with the burglar/murderer/ghost later.

"Give me a sec!" He shouted again while facing the mirror and fixing his bird-nest kinda hair. Fuck, is that pizza in between his teeth? He had pizza for lunch.

Another ring. Fuck it.

"Dude! What the hell is your problem?! I told you to give me a -"

He stopped mid-sentence when he chanced a look at the person in front of him after he opened the door. It was a man dressed in jeans and black tank top paired with stompers and a bucket hat. His features were sharp, eyes a piercing green and lips thin and pink as if molded by angels, the poor lights of the hallway of the complex reflected on his tan skin. There was a dog tag hanging around his neck and a scythe slung over his shoulder lazily. A smirk appeared on the stranger's -

"George Williams, I suppose?" The man grinned, flashing white and shining pearls. 

"Y-yeah." George stuttered out a reply, heart slowly beating inside his chest. "Who are you?"

"I think you know who I am."

"Uhm, I actually don't. I don't watch a lot of anime or play a lot of RPG to know which character you're trying to portray- "

The smirk on the man's face vanished. George tensed. "Cool weapon, though." He squeaked.

He was met with silence. The man lick his lower lip, obviously annoyed, but George felt trapped in a trance as his eyes followed the movement. Shit. Okay. Not the time to swoon, George. Get a grip.

"Uhm," He couldn't look the stranger in his eyes. The hallway wall was really interesting. "Do you wanna come in? I made roasted chicken..?"

Silence.

And then a huff.

"Sure." The man grunted.

George beamed, a child-like smile on his face. "Cool! That's coo - " The stranger pushed him aside and went inside the apartment himself. " - Yeah. Waltzed right in. Great. Feel at home, mister."

"I go by Grim Reaper."

George nodded as if it was a casual conversation. "That's an awesome name. I go by George but most people call me by my last name. Williams, ew. Like I have a name, Brenda. Use - "

"Where's the food?"

"Right! The food! You're here for the food. Which I cooked. Hold on."

Like a foolish high school student who just glanced at their silly crush, George entered the kitchen with no caution, forgetting the fact that there could be a burglar inside. Or a murderer. Or a psychopath. Or a ghost.

"If you can wait for five minutes and I'll just heat this baby up - Fuck!"

A sudden force knocked him down on the kitchen floor. He could hear a growl over him. He felt a body weighing him down to stay on the ground, a cold slimy substance fell on his clothed chest. He heard snapping of sharp teeth and another loud growl.

George's eyes widen when he saw his perpetrator. It was a large dog with canines as sharp as the knives in his kitchen, eyes flamed with burning red, scars and cuts spread across the entirety of its big face. It was drooling, and looking at George like a predator would to its prey. And they said dogs were man's bestfriend. Bullshit. The creature was on fours above him, snarling when he tried to scram away. 

The impact of his fall made his lower back ache but it didn't matter as of the moment. It gritted its teeth right in front of his face, hot (bad) breath hit his nostrils. Too close. His eyes crossed at the creature presented before him. He didn't dare breathe. Because it might be his last one and he didn't want to die in the hands of a... dog. He wanted to prolong this stupid situation and wait for help. Whose help? It would be embarrassing if the landlord were to ever visit his room, if he were to die tonight, and see chunks of his flesh and organs splattered all over the kitchen and a dog gnawing at his bones. Another growl, he closed his eyes and remained still, accepting his fate, waiting for the monster to begin its feast.

An evident swish of a blade greeted his ears, and he felt the weight above him disappeared and the nasty breath was gone. Slowly, his eyes fluttered open. The dog was gone. Like gone gone. There wasn't even a piece of whatever was cut off from its body on the floor. He gulped, feeling a lump was stuck at his throat. Too close. He thought he was going to be eaten alive. 

George looked up and saw the man he invited (barged) earlier. He was sitting on the kitchen counter, wiping the blood off his scythe with George's kitchen towel. 

Wait. Blood?

"W-wha-" He tried to speak but it felt like the air was knocked out of his lungs and he was panting. 

The man glanced at him, a brow raised up in question. "You alright?"

Was he? Being trampled on with a large monster and flashing its razor-sharp canines before him was a routine he always did at night. Really. Seriously. But one stare at the stranger's eyes and he felt at ease. Safe.

He shyly nodded his head. 

"Good. We need to go." The stranger stated in a dismissive tone, jumping off the counter and sliding his weapon on his back. George stayed inside the kitchen as the other was already on its way to the front door. He immediately scurried off the floor and followed the man with curious eyes when he realized the man was talking to him.

"W-where are we going?" He asked in a scratchy, barely heard voice. But he was heard.

The man, or should he say, his savior, stopped on his tracks and turned around, scythe swinging behind him, blade glinting at the bulb's glare. There was an unknown expression on his face that George found hard to decipher. It was cocky but angry. Seething mad, hot, but in a very smug way. It was complicated to describe when it was mixed with his wild thoughts. Subjective (very biased) thoughts.

"I asked you," George started when the man was offering him nothing but silence. "Where are we -"

The stranger interrupted him mid-sentence, eyes twinkling in poorly concealed fury. George wasn't sure if it was meant for him or for someone else.

"We're going to hell," The man replied with a snarl on his face. "Pay old Luci a visit and have a little chit-chat about that bitch of his, who just attacked you, over a cup of nice and warm tea."

Oh.

"That's... cool. But I'm more of a milk and coffee type of guy, though - "

"George."

"Yeah, I'm sorry. Let's go."