It had started normally enough, which is to say that it hadn’t started normally at all. It had happened one night back in December, a year after I had locked my front door to the world. I was reading a book, curled up in a corner of my sofa when the sound of the trash cans outside falling over met my ears. I looked over my shoulder to see what it was, expecting a cat or dog but instead a man was standing in the road, a metal pipe in his hand. His black jacket was covered with the white snowflakes that were falling, they dotted his dark hair and melted, the water mixing with the sweat that had formed on his brow from running. He was breathing hard like he had been chasing someone or something, but whatever his target may have been had obviously escaped him. He threw the pipe down in annoyance, a loud metallic clanging sound erupting as it hit the already battered trash cans. My eyes were transfixed on him, a mixture of curiosity and fright coursing through my veins. He must have seen my shadow or something because before I knew it he was looking up at my window. I had forgotten myself as I watched him, so when I finally noticed that he was looking at me it was already too late to hide.
The following day I was waiting for my lunch order, my mind idly wandering as I paced back and forth in the living room. Dark eyes, all I could think about were dark eyes. The gaze in them seemed to peer into my soul, like it could see all my secrets, knew what I was thinking. The knock at the door made me jump, my heart skipping a beat.