Have you ever felt like there was an unknown force working against you in ways you couldn’t explain?
Like when you’re reading a book and a ginormous cockroach lands next you. The kind that inevitably flies in your direction. You let out a scream and jump off the bed only to realize that it’s running towards you. Running. On its nimbly legs. From across the bed. And before you know it, you’re locked in the bathroom with your book, thinking, “That could’ve happened to anyone.”
A chapter later, you figure it’s safe to venture out and notice the pillow that somehow landed on the floor. You stoop to pick it up and scream as your fingers touch antennae. Within seconds, the pillow flies across the room and you watch with a touch of amusement as it scurries across the floor into some dark crevice.
That, too, could’ve happened to anyone.
Then later at night when all is silent and you find yourself immersed in the world of Lady Gaga videos, you feel an annoying itch. It’s too dark to see, and you absently brush the feeling away. But the itch remains. And this time, it moves. You freeze as you finally comprehend.
It’s only later when you’re standing there – throat raw, breathing labored, and a few articles of clothing missing, that you realize that maybe, just maybe, some inexplicable, terrible force was out to get you after all.
Because, surely, that couldn’t have happened to just anyone.
