My Visitor 2

What manner of man is this, or what of creature is it in the
semblance of man? I feel the dread of this horrible palce over powering me; I am in fear--in awful fear--and there is no escape for me; I am enompassed about with terrors that I dare not think of...

Bram Stoker, Dracula, 1897

A pin could drop of the eerie silence that permeated the small room when he told me he didn't believe in God; feeling the tensity of the moment I became afraid for the first time in my life.

From what I know, from what I hear when someone tells you they don't believe in God that automatically means they have no conscious.

He can do whatever is at will and not even blink doing it. In a much terrible scenario, he could chop me up in a million little pieces, quietly cutting away at night, while my sleeping neighbors slept; while the sound of cutting and breaking bones, piece by bloody piece, placing all of my remains in a black plastic bag, strong enough to carry meat and blood together, and scatter whats left of me throughout America and no one would be the wiser.

Blood can be easily cleaned in the sink, mopped from the floor, walls scrubbed with cleaner, some disinfectant in small corners hard to get to, and cleaned up as if no one ever lived there.

The alarm would go off, the faucet would drip, and my cats...my poor kitties.

Did I tell you I was afraid for my life during his stay.

I would hate for the worse. I had a strange feeling he's done this before. It felt he has overpowered someone where the victim was unsure of his intelligence. He has experience, definitely. Quickly, I had to gather my nerves; without any delay, I had to get this homeless man from out of my home. Before what could be said and done, and is the thing that really struck me was when this homeless man, has not only instilled in me fear but the audacity to say I couldn't write. "You can't write, " he said. "You have to be creative!" He shouted and barked; I could feel his hot breath mixed with his boldness upon my face.

I was stunned and shocked. Something didn't settle right. And what he was telling me was that I didn't have it in me to do it, such a feat as to write a book.

I never had a man, or any man to tell me I couldn't write a book. Never one come so bold as to say that to my face.

Ladies and gentlemen, lightning could intervene at that moment because I tell you what, that was the day I got my idea for my book. It was the first and very night "The Homeless Drifter's Night Tales," was born.

Luckily, I had escaped with my life and my cats lives too which I think I used some of theirs; from his abuse, he'd beaten my back, where he punched me repeatedly, and luckily it wasn't a knife thrust into me over and over; happily, I came out on top with a title, a subject, and a book. Phew!

Even though out of that misery, I still thank my homeless visitor when he left that is, he left with an empty black plastic bag, the Hefty kind, with the plastic holders, yellow; lifting it up as he walked out of my house: I guess to say "This would have been you. Where I would have put you, carrying you across America piece by bloody piece." I do believe he could do the job.

However, now I raise my hand in victory, because now I have a book that he gave me, personally, without his knowledge.

I now have a short story collection. Book one is finished and will be available this year( as observed on top). I hope you can pick up a copy. I like all my readers to enjoy a nice read in bed and at home, safely snugged; a home if you have one?

From book one I've written a short story called "Knock-Knock." It has a similar account, about a girl who also was looking for a roommate and there someone comes along just like my visitor did, however this visitor was caught, and in time before he did the ultimate. Mines wasn't. He's still alive somewhere. If you think it's a joke, I still have one of his paystubs from the place we worked together. So further adieu, please enjoy my story. http://docs.google.com/view?docID=dc8cwq2f_3cwmh9fn4&revision=_latest