prelude: DONT READ AS IT WILL CHANGE!

Sitting at my desk, I combed through the last few paragraphs of my writing on the laptop screen. It didn't take long for me to reach a disheartening conclusion: what I had written was nothing short of terrible.

Leaning back, I let out a sigh and turned my chair to face the window, gazing down at the street from my one-bedroom apartment. It was a beautiful spring day outside, which under normal circumstances, would have brightened my mood.

However, the ongoing COVID-19 lockdown, now in its second month, meant I couldn't enjoy the sunshine as I wished. This restriction only added to the gloominess I felt.

The lockdown had put me in a tough spot. Soon after it was announced, my employer, BuyBooksEasy.com, where I had been working for six months, decided to lay off their employees instead of furloughing them. The job wasn't exciting, but it paid the bills, including my rent, which was now overdue.

With the lockdown preventing him from visiting, my landlord, Mr. Roberts, was growing impatient. I had been anxiously anticipating an eviction notice all week, to the point where I hadn't checked my mail in three days. I knew avoiding the letter wouldn't solve anything, but facing the reality was daunting.

This situation led me to try writing a novel. With no job and unable to afford even the cheapest TV streaming services, I had plenty of time. Given the ease of self-publishing nowadays, I thought this could be a way out of my financial troubles.

Immersed in Sci-fi and Fantasy, my head was always filled with incredible ideas. I figured it wouldn't be too difficult to weave these into a story. "The answer is hard, very hard...just like my penis," I joked to myself, a bit of juvenile humor I couldn't help but snicker at.

Returning to my writing struggles, it was clear I wasn't producing anything close to Tolkien's level. It was disheartening to see my work resemble the ramblings of a distracted child more than anything else.

Realizing I needed a break, possibly a snack to lift my spirits, I headed to the small kitchen next to the living room. Opening the fridge, I was met with a nearly empty space, devoid of anything remotely appetizing or sweet.

In my fridge, the offerings were sparse: some wilted salad leaves and a couple of onions. Tucked in the door was a pint of milk, which, after a quick sniff test, seemed fine. "Looks like it's coffee time," I announced to the empty room, a nod to my now non-existent social life.

Talking to myself wasn't new; I've always vocalized my thoughts, much to the amusement of my friends. However, the isolation of the past eight weeks hadn't intensified this habit. It simply made me realize something unsettling: I didn't miss my friends or family as much as I thought I would.

It's not that I didn't enjoy catching up through video calls or that I cherished their company any less before the lockdown. It's just that the solitude and restrictions hadn't bothered me as much as it did others. In fact, I was quite content with the situation, surprisingly undisturbed by the lack of social interaction.

Preparing my coffee, I set the kettle to boil and chose my favorite mug, a gift from a friend that cheekily celebrated my love for World of Warcraft. As I waited, my gaze drifted around my small apartment. The second-hand furniture, the shelves laden with fantasy books and graphic novels from my younger days, all spoke of a simpler time. The realization hit me that I ought to organize them properly, though I knew that if I moved, they would likely end up even more jumbled than before.

This thought led me back to the looming dread that had been my constant companion for weeks. "Stop procrastinating, you coward," I scolded myself, trying to muster more courage than I felt. "It's just a letter. Maybe, just maybe, the landlord's found some compassion during this lockdown," I mused aloud, though I doubted it.

Feeling somewhat braver, I walked over to the front door and gathered the mail that had piled up over the last few days.

As I sifted through the day's mail while making my way back to the kitchen, I didn't notice the furniture lying in ambush. One painful encounter with a table later, I had filtered out the junk mail and was left with two letters that demanded my attention.

One of them was nestled inside a business envelope, likely a bill or statement, and the other bore the unmistakable handwriting of Mr. Roberts, my landlord, who seemed to relish delivering bad news in the most personal way possible. The latter confirmed my fears: due to my failure to pay April's rent, eviction proceedings were underway. The shock of reading those words hit me hard, even though a part of me had anticipated this outcome. I hesitantly opened the second letter, hoping for no more bad news, but fate had a darker sense of humor. My internet provider was cutting off my service tomorrow. Facing eviction was one thing, but losing my online lifeline felt like the final blow in a series of unfortunate events.

As I wrestled with this grim reality, two things happened simultaneously. The kettle whistled, a mundane reminder that life goes on, even when every penny counts. Then, the room darkened dramatically. Curious and slightly alarmed, I ventured back into my living room, only to find the cause wasn't a sudden storm but something far more surreal.

Occupying the space before me was a swirling vortex of dark energy, a pulsating mass of blues, purples, and blacks that seemed to devour the light from my window. It hummed with a growing intensity, confirming its presence was as real as it was inexplicable. "Holy fucking shit, there is a portal in my house," I blurted out, immediately realizing the absurdity of my statement given that I lived in a flat, not a house.

The logical part of my brain screamed for me to flee, but as I turned to escape, a giant, clawed hand emerged from the vortex and snatched me up, rendering any thoughts of escape futile. As it pulled me closer, the scent of burnt toast filled my nostrils, a bizarre detail to note as panic took over and darkness claimed me.

My last coherent thought before being swallowed by the portal was a grim reflection on my eviction worries. It turned out that eviction was the least of my problems. I was right about the portal, but unfortunately, it led to a painful demise on the other side. Thankfully, my memory of those final moments is mercifully blank.