Not Quite the Company Expected

Lather, rinse, and repeat as needed. Why do they put that on shampoo bottles? Doesn’t every civilized human being know how to use shampoo? I mean, honestly, what kind of barbaric imbecile would not know what to do with shampoo? Maybe crazy people would forget. That seems realistic. Only an authentic psycho would look strangely at a hair-cleansing product, slowly pick it up, and then drink it. If that’s true, then my shampoo knowledge days are over. Living alone can make you crazy. Living alone for three years in counting can make you especially crazy. That’s why I lock the door. I always lock the door.

The loneliness of it all is merely the beginning. Trapped within the small confines of my ridiculously messy apartment, I sometimes get the feeling the walls are closing in on me. Now, for instance I am locked between the two smallest walls in my house—the shower. Perhaps the walls are closing in, but space has yet to feel tighter. Yes, I am definitely going crazy. I knew it was bound to—what was that? Okay, weird. I just heard a really loud bang. I felt it too. Souded like it was coming from the kitchen. Oh well. So anyway, I—wait, there it is again! I…don’t think I’m expecting anyone. “Hello?” I say. No answer. Slowly I turn off the shower and as my head is facing downward looking at the wet, glossy, white tile I feel a bit of a headrush. An image flashes before my eyes. I’m in the same position, looking down at the tile, which is no longer covered in water, but in blood. The tile is white again. Okay, deep breath. I’m not crazy. That’s it…deep sigh…look up at the ceiling…and the ceiling is now dripping with blood. No, it’s white again. I’m not crazy.

A louder bang is heard, closer this time. I reach for a towel to wrap around myself, but it is not the warm cotton towel I had hoped for. Suddenly between my fingers I feel pure human skin. I shreik and throw it in the corner behind the toilet. I reach for the knob to lock the door, but as my feet try to move they are glued to the floor. I look down and the black and white bathroom tile is now covered in an inch of tar. I can’t move, and I hear the noises coming closer, quicker, louder. I try to move again, but the walls are closing in. The celing moving downward, and the room is getting smaller and smaller. The noises are now just outside my door, louder, faster, deeper, and a black hand becomes visible through the small crack underneath the door. I'm not crazy.