1 Wait...
Drip.
.
.
Drip!
A sound much alike a leaky faucet echoed within a small studio apartment. It was gentle but held a sharpness that could rouse a light sleeper from lucidity and awaken them.
Marshall was one such person that could be awakened at the sound of a needles fall. He tossed and turned in the throes of his slumber as that incessant dripping carried on pounding in his ear. His face was contorted as if to express his discomfort from the situation.
With a violent jerk of his coppered hands, he sprung off the side of his bed before looking around with his green eyes in a bewildered haze.
"What the fuck," he rasped. His voice was light, mellow, and slightly robotic in intonation.
"I didn't leave the sink on when I went to sleep."
The perplexing drip continued with a steadiness that brought an eerie calm into Marshall's mind. 'Someone's been in here,' he thought. 'Was it Sherry? Couldn't be... She gave her key back when we broke up a few days ago. That bitch...'
Marshall's studio apartment was fairly large. He had just stepped into his thirties and just stepped out of his first serious relationship. Marshall had thought Sherry was his one, but she had other plans.
He placed his feet onto the cold, hardwood, floor. The chill helped to sober him from his past night out. A thin film of dust coated the bottoms of his feet as he pressed himself from his bed. His 71 inch frame swayed, stretching, from the laborious task of re-acclimating to the real world.
"Damn," he grumbled. "Gotta sweep again."
He continued on his way, directly out of his opened bedroom door, and into the adjoined kitchen and living area. It was a 300 foot space living and kitchen area where the kitchen occupied a little under 75 feet of space. There was a small island to partition the kitchen from the rest of the living space. He had a couch and chaise-longue that occupied most of the dominant wall when you entered. It worked as a segway from the door to the kitchen. His T.V. was in the left corner of the living space, turned caddy corner to fit, and was moderately large for an American house fixture. Glancing over his living space, which was sparsely decorated, Marshall didn't take notice of anything missing.
The dripping continued.
His shuffling walk, in fatigue, carried him around the sofa towards the T.V. stand where he checked the drawers.
Nothing missing.
Good.
He continued to rummage through the drawers before it dawned on him that he searched his house with no protection under the potential threat of an intruder. It could be said that his nonchalance might end up being his downfall. Marshall simply made fun of himself for it.
"I'm that stupid bastard that gets cucked in the films. The one that dies first, aren't I?"
Chuckling, Marshall made his way to his kitchen.
The sink was off.
There was nothing on the counters. He didn't need to check the refrigerator or his cabinets as he usually didn't cook at home.
The dripping stopped.
Marshall scratched his head at the conundrum. He milled about in the moment, averting his gaze to the near by restroom that some may confuse as a closet. It was the smallest addition in the apartment and the last place he would look for an intruder. An ill foreboding cast shadows over his heart. His hair stood on end as he approached.
'Wait..,' he thought to himself. ' I'm Black... We don't do shit like this. Must've been my octoroon coming out...'
"Fuck that shit," he mumbled, turning away from the door in a bid to go back to bed. "Spooky ass ghost buster type shit ain't happening to me."
Boom!
He had just turned heading back to his room when the sound of a door being knocked nearly knocked him off of his feet.
He was rattled to the core.
"Oh fuck," he grunted, scrambling on the ground until he reached the cabinetry, "is this an earthquake or is there shit happening that you usually can only read about?"
"Mothafuckas not gettin me!"
As quickly as he could, Marshall scoured the drawers underneath the cabinets. He forgot, in his haste, that his kitchen was relatively organized and clean due to its lack of use. His hands, small for his size, trembled creating a clinking sound between the ladles and utensils mixed together in the space.
'Serving drawer,' he screamed inwardly, 'just my fucking luck.' His hand rested on a heavy, silver, serving ladle that was more decorative than useful at parties. "This should do," he reckoned with himself.
Boom!
Boom!
The sound came again. This time it was more perceptible as the wood began to rattle around the front door. It sounded like a mix between a bad fireworks explosion and a horse kicking the door.
Boom! Cri~ik!
The wall around the door began to give. Marshall swallowed hard. He had a choice with the ladle in his hand. Walk towards the door and wall that would fall, or orient himself in a way he could see potential oncoming threats. He did as any rational irrationally scared person would. Run to the restroom.
"Nah!" He screeched. "Nah!! Not me son!"
Wait...! His heart screamed for logic. You're holding a fucking ladle!
