Don't Give Up

Can't You Knock?

First, I just want to say that I'm sorry for all of you Americans that don't approve of Trump's ways. As a Canadian, I'm unable to imagine what you must be going through, but I'm here if anyone ever wants to talk or rant. Don't forget, it's only 4 years. But be careful during those 1460 days... And please don't let that horrible man crush your dreams.

The rest of the world is praying for you, and we're here to provide our support.

Now on another note, let's get on with the chapter!

***
Tobin's P.OV.

"Don't go look in the bathtub."

Naturally, I do the opposite thing of what it says.

I approach the bathtub, that uneasy feeling inside of me intensifying even more with each step I take. A variety of unpleasant scenerios is playing inside my head, each one being more morbid than the previous one.

At last, I reach the famous bath. I peak inside the ceramic basin, dark thoughts clouding my mind and judgement. I then let out the breath I was holding in when seeing what's hidden at the bottom of it: a drawing. But not any drawing; this one's slightly disturbing, with black and red scribbles that seem to have been traced by a three-year-old covering the whole sheet. I end up discerning a figure out of this messy sketch : a deformed dog. It's beady eyes and smirk taunt me as I stare back at it, confused, with a hint of fright getting in the mix as well.

A dog, out of all the animals that exist...

This whole situation doesn't feel right to me at all.

What kind of joke is this? What is going on?

That usually quiet voice camouflaged in the back of my mind suddenly comes forward, screaming at me to turn around. Following my urging instinct, I spin toward the bathroom door.

There, on the threshold, stands a dark, human-shaped silhouette. The stranger is wearing a black hoodie, its hood hidding their facial caracteristics. Its body shape makes me believe it's a man, but I wouldn't be able to know for sure. They're standing still, blocking my only way of escape.

My eye catches the small knife resting at the bottom of their right hand. That's when an indescribible fear starts to arise within me. It starts as a spark, before it quickly consumes most of my soul.

I'm in danger, and I'm entirely aware of it.

Yup, I knew I should have stayed in bed after all.

"Who... who are you?" I ask with a trembling voice. I'm frozen like a statue, unable to detach myself from my spot. Staying where I am sounds like a much safer option than getting close to the shady dude with the sharp weapon. Better to get him to talk and distract him until someone comes to rescue me.

It's during moments like this that telepathy should exist. And common sense, because leaving my phone beside my bed was clearly a stupid idea. And people wonder why many of us bring our portable device everywhere we go...

Instead of replying to my simple question, the intruder chooses to stare at the knife they're holding, as if they were mesmerized by it. Many questions with no answers emerge from the surface of my scared mind. Could that be my aggressor? Is he here to finish what he started? What should I do? Wait here or scream, when both risk for me to get injured, possibly even killed? Should I jump on him to attempt to take away his knife?

Honestly, none of those ideas seem ideal to me...

I try to stay as calm as possible to get out of this queasy situation in one piece. My stare is glued to the gleaming blade. Every single one of my muscles is so tensed that I feel like they could snap at any second. I might seem cool and collected on the outside, but I'm sort of freaking out on the inside.