Day Two

"Today, I will be starting a collection of short stories--short thriller stories. Perhaps you will read one and you might like it. Perhaps I might continue the story. Perhaps not. Perhaps I should start typing the short story that I just finished telling you I was going to write. Perhaps not. Perhaps I like to use the word perhaps. And perhaps I'm only using the word to annoy you, and perhaps it is." He tapped at the keyboard with surprising speed. He had taken a course in typing two years before and it was proving beneficial now. He had no idea what he was typing, but only that he was. He glanced to his left, eying the bright red numbers that stared him in the face. 1:10 pm. It was Wednesday afternoon and a slight breeze whisked through the red and orange leaves on the trees just outside his bedroom window. A typical autumn day, to be sure.

But he would soon discover that all was not typical, and all was not as it seemed.

He leaned back in his chair, and, closing his eyes, searched for words. Finding them, he leaned forward and began punching at the keyboard. "Perhaps I should get up and get a drink, but my thirst is not one to be quenched by water, not satisfied by a cola." He pushed his chair out from underneath him as he stood. He looked around. His room was a mess to end all messes, literally. No one could mess a room like he did, yet he cleaned it regularly. He ran his fingers through his short-cropped brown hair. Perhaps he would continue his typing later--perhaps not.

A knock on the door sent him down the hall and into the dimly-lit living room. He wasn't expecting anybody. For being recently graduated from college, he had a decent place. Landing him a job at a local newspaper as a writer helped with the income, and when he was short, his parents provided. His life was going smoothly, as far as he knew.

He swung open the large cherry-wood door and with a skeptical look on his face, greeted the delivery man. The package was addressed to Michael Hall. Not the photographer or painter, but himself. He wished he was widely known, but his talent left him writing for a local newspaper. He closed the door as the UPS man left. He grabbed a knife and opened the package cautiously. It was ironic; he'd be using a knife more in the next few days than he had ever done in his lifetime.
He pulled at the packaging peanuts and retrieved a cell phone. 'How cliche', he thought. The second the thought left his mind, the phone chirped to life. Michael jerked, startled by the volume level.
He put the receiver up to his ear, "Hello?"