As I cruised down the road, I kept thinking about how I was going to say goodbye to the only man I had ever truly loved. Michael was a very sensitive guy, which was great in some ways, but not so great in others. I knew that coming to bid him farewell to him was probably a huge mistake, but I felt like I at least owed him that much considering I was taking his heart with me when I left.
After about twenty or so minutes, I pulled up in front of his place. Michael lived in a small yet charming two-bedroom house that his parents had helped him acquire about a year ago (which I suppose is what happens when your parents have a little more money than they know what to do with). The outside was painted a lovely sky blue with ebony wood shutters and a deck to match. Plants of all shapes, sizes, and colors ranging from tulips to morning glories contoured the perimeter of the house in a linear garden. The front yard was home to a fountain with a replica of the statue of David as the centerpiece. Even from the first time I was here, it was evident to me that Michael was a connoisseur of art and the finer things in life; even though he was only 21 years old, he had already made quite a splash in the art community, and made decent money for his current position. I suppose you could call him a prodigy. Some of his paintings were at least nationally renowned. It was only a matter of time before his talents were recognized globally, and he was recruited by some upscale French or Italian art aficionado to paint the next Mona Lisa. He had a talent that most people would kill for. I often enjoyed listening to him spout off random art trivia, and mostly it would make me giggle because of some of the outrageous knowledge that he possessed. But all jokes aside, Michael had a gift, a calling, and there was no doubt that he was intensely passionate about his work.
My heart began to race as I stepped out of my vehicle. I shut the door as quietly as I possibly could. I cautiously strolled up to his front door and knocked several times, to no avail. I tried ringing the door bell a few times as well. No answer. I was beginning to assume the worst; why would he call me over only to ignore my attempt to say goodbye?
"Michael?" I called out for him, my voice trembling with fear. "Michael? It's Anna. Are you here?" Still no answer. I jiggled the doorknob to see if it was unlocked. Once I discovered that it was, in a bit of a panic, I decided to invite myself in. I took my steps one at a time, looking out for anything that seemed off. Slowly but surely, I headed in the direction of his room, which was down the hallway about 20 feet from the front door.
"Michael? Are you home?" I didn't expect any sort of answer at this point, but I was still hoping that I would receive one. As I approached the door to his room, my heart started to beat harder and harder until I could hear the blood pounding in my ears. My hands became sweaty, and the rest of my skin clammy. I could feel my hands and legs shaking uncontrollably, making it difficult for me to even take small steps. Although I was unable to explain it, I could just innately sense that something was off about this situation.
The door was most of the way closed, and at this point I was terrified to see what was behind it. I hesitantly placed my hand on the doorknob, and warily opened the door. Inch by inch, more of his room was exposed, and upon further inspection I saw…nothing, at least nothing compared to the horror I was expecting to see. Nothing looked out of place or suspicious, until an odd painting caught my eye. Upon further inspection I saw…was that…me? I leapt back in terror. What was this? And where was Michael? If he wasn't here, then where could-
I had no time to finish my thought as the door slammed behind me, where Michael had been hiding behind it. "Hello, Anna," he said distantly and coldly.