A Wilde Summer

ⓞⓝⓔ || he's in my window

             

32°.

It was thirty two bloody degrees!

I could only watch as the sweat rolled down my body and onto the ground. I wasn't particularly sensitive to heat; I was always the person who would laugh it off as others dampened their clothes with sweat, so the fact that I was doused in it came as quite a surprise to me.

This heat had reduced me to camping away in my closet with a fan set on high wearing nothing but a sports bra and loose pyjama shorts. On top of that, I was self-fanning myself with a frying pan, because my parents acquired every single fan and hand fan in the house for their own use. Getting this one fan for myself was a battle which I narrowly won.

It wasn't usually this hot at night, never hot enough to make me sleep in the closet, but I had no other choice, I needed a small space for the fan to cool if I wanted to keep my skin un-burnt.

"Ow! Shit!" A strange voice came from outside my closet.

I turned off the fan to lessen the noise as I listened in silence.

"Damn branches! Ow-" THUD.

The voice wasn't recognizable and many scenarios began to run through my head.

What if this strange person is an armed robber? Or a murderer? Or a răpist?

Breathe Olivia. In. Out. In. Out. Just stay quiet and he won't notice you.

But what about my family? What if he goes after my parents?

I can't let that happen, I have to do something, or at least try. I could never forgive myself if something happens because I was too much of a bloody coward to do anything.

Slowly, I pushed the closet door open, just enough for me to look through. There in my bedroom, stood the silhouette of a man in my window, his back facing me.

Now's my chance to catch him off guard!

I felt the adrenaline rush as I gripped the pan tight, taking deep breaths. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. GO!

I swung open the closet door and ran as fast as I could to the window, frying pan ready for business.

The man turned around at the last second and the pan came in contact with his gut and he fell to the ground of my room, groaning in pain.

"What are you doing in my house?" I demanded, holding the pan up.

"Wait! Wait! Don't hit me!" he pleaded in an American accent.

What in heaven's name is an American doing all the way in London, in my bedroom!

"What are you doing in my house?" I repeated.

"Wait! I can explain!"

"Then do it!" I snapped.

He turned over so that he was looking straight at me. "I mean no harm." He began, "I was just in the neighborhood and I was actually running from paparazzi-"

I jerked the pan, scaring him as I cut him off. "Are you bloody mad?"

His eyes widened as they fixed on the pan. "What? Why?"

"Do you think I was born yesterday? The paparazzi? Really?" I scoffed.

He nodded. "Yes! I mean-no, I don't think you were born yesterday, but yes! The paparazzi were chasing me and I had to get away because, well, I'm pretty notorious" He smiled smugly, "and my dad said that I have to stay out of the public eye for a while until I die down a little bit. I was trying to run away from the paparazzi you see, and well your house was just here, the window was open and the lights were off so I assumed you weren't around and-"