My entire body goes rigid as soon as I gain consciousness. Did I just feel somebody's fingers gently comb through my hair as I sleep, or was I just having a super-realistic dream?
I'm praying for the latter as my eyelids slowly flutter open, hoping to discover an empty room so I can place the blame solely on my sleep deprived brain for the strange occurrence.
However, that isn't the case. The scream doesn't even make its way past my lips before a large hand is slapped over my mouth. All I can see through my tear filled eyes is a silhouette of a man hovering over the side of the bed, staring down at me calmly as I struggle to pry away the hand that reeks of stale smoke.
"Shh. Don't scream." The man reaches over with his other hand and flicks on the lamp on the nightstand. I see his cheekbones first, then the unruly hair, and then finally those big dark eyes. He removes the cold palm from my face and takes a step back.
It takes a moment for my brain to register who those features belong to, but as soon as it does I sit up and scramble backwards to the headboard, clutching my knees to my chest. I feel the color drain from my face as he casually smiles at me.
"Richard, what the fuck is this? How did you get in?" I ask, my hands still shaking.
He just shrugs and flashes a crooked grin. "I wanted to see you."
I can tell he's intoxicated. The words leave his mouth in a slurred mess, and I'm sure I can smell the liquor on his breath even from back here. Not only that, his pupils are three times the size than they usually are.
He catches me staring at the white powder residue around his nostrils, so quickly wipes it with the back of his hand and spins around and begins to wander around my room.
"You wanted to see me? So you got high and decided to break into my apartment?" I try to refrain from sounding as scared as I still feel.
Richard doesn't respond, but continues to snoop around my belongings on my dressing table. He picks up a Polaroid picture stuck to my mirror and brings it close to his face to examine. It's a photograph of me grinning in front of the Hollywood sign when I was sixteen. Richard runs his thumb over my face and smiles down at the Polaroid, before sticking it back onto the mirror.
He eyes me for a second and then says, "I've been wondering what your bedroom looks like."
Richard laughs to himself as he stumbles over to my dresser, resting his palms on it to keep himself steady. He slides open the top drawer, which just so happens to be my underwear drawer.
I quickly rise to my feet and rush over before he discovers what's inside. But it's too late. By the time I'm over there, he's already got a lilac thong draped over his index finger, twirling it around with a playful grin plastered across his smug face.
"Can I keep these?" Richard winks.
"No you cannot." I say as I snatch them out of his hand and stuff them back in the drawer. I sigh as I look up at him. "Richard, sit down. You're wasted.
He shakes his head. "No I'm not."
"Yes you are. Sit down, let me get you some water." I place my hand on his shoulder and guide him over to the bed. Richard sits down on the edge of the mattress and groans as he drops his head into his hands with a loud groan.
I head to the kitchen to fill a glass up with cold water. It's hard for me to hold the glass still under
the tap. They're still trembling. My heart is still beating out of control, and my eyes are still foggy from the tears.
I place the water down and walk over to my front door. There's no damage anywhere on it whatsoever. I'm a light sleeper, so Richard must've picked the lock and broken in silently, because I certainly didn't hear him enter my apartment. Maybe this is what he does. Perhaps he's a burglar. That would explain a whole lot.
