DESPERATE

7

Randall paced impatiently back and forth, waiting for the Andera family to go to bed. He needed to be well prepared for tonight. A few hours later, the house became still. Randall left his den and snooped around to collect random items. He wanted to make the perfect disguise.

Satisfied, he put on a shower cap; rubber dishwashing gloves tied with shoelaces to prevent them from falling off; Gail's T-shirt fastened with safety pins to close the bottom; and thick non-slip socks wrapped with a plastic bag. He was ready for his mission.

Randall hurried outside and skipped to Mrs. Veronica's house. When he peeked through the windows, it seemed that no one was around. He pushed open the window in the living room and entered the house. It wasn't difficult for the disturbed small man to locate the kitchen area. He swiftly removed the plastic bags from his feet and disposed of them in the trash can.

A sinister grin spread across his face as he noticed the wood-handled cleaver on the counter. With his small hand, he picked it up and swung it around. Don't worry, old woman. You won't experience any pain.

Randall rushed up the creaky stairs, his heart pounding. The old lady's bedroom door stood slightly ajar, inviting him in. The room smelled of mothballs and memories. The small man tiptoed across the faded carpet, his footsteps barely audible. There she lay, the old woman, cocooned in her quilt, oblivious to the world.

He stood by her bedside, a mixture of revulsion and determination etched on his face. "If you'd only minded your own business," he muttered under his breath, brandishing the gleaming cleaver. The blade caught the moonlight, casting eerie shadows on the walls. She stirred, but her slumber remained unbroken.

Randall's patience waned. Boredom gnawed at him like a persistent mosquito. With a mischievous grin, he leaped onto the bed, disturbing the delicate balance of pillows and memories. Her eyes snapped open, pupils wide with shock. Mrs. Veronica, once a formidable force in the neighborhood, now faced an unexpected intruder.

And what an intruder he was—a grotesque minikin figure, clad in mismatched attire, a knife clenched in his tiny hand. His eyes bore into hers, cold and unyielding. She stammered, her voice trembling, "What do you want?”

Randall bounced on the bed, a maniacal glee bubbling within him. He threw back his head and laughed—a sound that echoed through the empty house.

"Please, don't kill me," she pleaded, carefully examining his face. "Oh dear, you're the person I saw at the window!" The smeared makeup on his face made Randall look more horrendous. "I hate nosey neighbors like you." Randall shrieked. He licked the side of the cleaver. His saliva dripped on the covers.

The old woman could feel nothing but blind terror. "You can take whatever you want. I want you to get out of my house."

Randall slid the large knife up and down her leg. "I already have everything I need. I don't want your junk. Randall just wants to play.”

Mrs. Veronica cleared her throat and said in a soft voice, "Listen, Randall - "
He cut her off, "DON'T YOU DARE SAY MY NAME!"

Randall smacked her in the face. The old woman held her bright red cheek and whimpered, "Please, this isn't good for my heart."

"I don't care. That's your problem, not mine. I hope your heart stops beating. It will make my job easier.”

Mrs. Veronica tried to punch him in the face, but he quickly ducked. Randall grabbed her hands and pinned her down on the bed. He jabbed his filthy finger into her mouth. "Do you wear dentures?" The old woman nodded her head in terror.

Randall pulled out the dentures dripping with saliva and shoved them into his mouth. "How do I look?" He grinned like a Cheshire cat. Mrs. Veronica turned white as a sheet. Her body trembled like a leaf. She couldn't utter a word.

Randall got up close to her face and kept screaming, "BOO!" The old woman put her hand on her chest and began to hyperventilate. He took a pillow and suffocated the old lady until her body went limp. He pried open her mouth and put the dentures back. A loud crash could be heard from downstairs. It startled Randall. "Oh shit, someone is here!"

Kirk, a nervous druggie, roamed the dark street looking for a house to break into. He needed to steal some valuables so he could sell them. A day had gone by, he hadn't smoked weed. It drove him berserk. He lurked around the quiet neighborhood. Clutching the strap of his duffel bag, Kirk spotted a house with a window half opened. "Good, someone forgot to close the window." He put on his ski mask and black gloves and squeezed himself through it.

The house was plunged into darkness. Kirk stumbled into a floor lamp. It shattered on the hardwood floor with a loud clang. He froze, expecting someone to rush down the stairs. But the house remained eerily silent. He breathed a sigh of relief. "Today is my lucky day, no one is home." He muttered to himself. He scanned the room with his flashlight and swiftly grabbed every valuable item in sight.

Upstairs, Randall composed himself. He couldn't afford to panic. He crawled on the floor towards the staircase to get a better view of the intruder. He saw a hooded figure, wearing a ski mask, stuffing a duffel bag with the old woman's belongings. A wave of relief washed over him. Randall bit his cuticle while he observed the burglar's every move. He still clutched the sharp cleaver in his hand.

When the burglar slipped into another room on the ground floor, Randall seized the opportunity. He dashed down the stairs. He ran across the living room and hid behind the couch near the open window. He dropped the weapon on the floor. He didn't care about his small size. He was no coward. He was determined to get revenge on the jerk for ruining his fun.

The burglar heaved his heavy duffel bag and quietly headed up the stairs. Randall knew it was the perfect moment to strike. He followed the burglar and pulled his hoodie back. The burglar lost his balance and fell backwards. They rolled down the stairs.

The sudden attack stunned Kirk. He was dazed from the brutal fall. The little man leaped on top of him and jabbed him in the eyes. Kirk howled in pain and tried to shove the little man off him. Randall wouldn't let go of him. He gripped the burglar's head and slammed it three times on the floor.

It knocked him out. "Fool, no one can beat me." He sneered, slapping the burglar. Kirk didn't move. Randall went back to fetch the cleaver behind the couch and returned upstairs.

Randall was pleased to see a lifeless body on the bed. "Stupid broad, I'm not done with you yet!" He slit her throat fearlessly, nearly decapitating her. Blood squirted all over the bed. He smeared the knife with blood and splattered it all over the wall. He staged it like it was a brutal killing.

He ran back quickly downstairs to the unconscious burglar and smeared blood all over the man's entire body. He removed one of the burglar's gloves and slashed his palm. He didn't want to be responsible for the murder of the old lady. He cleverly placed the bloody cleaver in the unconscious burglar's wounded hand.

Randall searched for the old woman's cellphone in her room and called 911. He said in his best old lady's voice imitation, "Help me, there's an intruder in my home!"

Operator: Where are you, ma'am?

Randall: At home. I'm in my bedroom. Please come quick. I can hear him walking up the stairs.

Operator: Don't hang up, stay with me. A police officer is on the way.

Randall dropped the cellphone near the bed, letting out a bloodcurdling female scream. "Please don't hurt me!"

Operator: Are you okay, ma'am?

Randall pushed the hang-up button and walked out of the room proud of himself. He passed by the burglar who slowly regained consciousness and chuckled.

He calmly crawled out the window like nothing ever happened. When he heard the police sirens from a distance, he sprinted back home.