text: "See you in a bit alright?" The shout came from the porch downstairs, followed shortly by the slamming of the front door and crunching of the key inside the keyhole. "I hope you're quick." He thought, stomach growling for the fourth time in the last couple minutes. "Bloody lockdown. Can't bloody do anything anymore," he messaged his girlfriend on Facebook. "I know it sucks, seeing you this weekend tho <3 <3" She replied. He opened up a video game while he was waiting for his friend to return. It was the middle of his second game when he heard the bathroom door close and the metal latch slide. He lifted up his headphones from his ears, "Yo, you back?" He called through his bedroom door. No answer. "Yo!" He yelled. "James?" Still nothing. Sometimes when James was in a hurry, he'd ignore things. Had the bathroom door even locked? At this point he was too lazy to get up and investigate. James had probably come back for a quick piss and had already left again. He resumed the game. It had been another five minutes when he realised he really needed a piss. This morning's tea and orange juice had gone right through him. He finished his current game and did a desperate walk to the bathroom, but when he tried the handle, it was locked. At first he was confused. "James, are you in there?" When no answer came back, he screamed: "JAMES!" No answer again. Then it suddenly clicked: it *wasn't* James. There was probably a stranger in the house. He slowly backed away from the door and quietly withdrew a kitchen knife from a wooden holder, then tiptoed back to the door. He stood still, holding the knife by his waist and listening in with his ear to the wood. No sound. At this point he was wondering whether to call the police, but he still wasn't absolutely sure there was anyone in the bathroom. He tried the handle again, and again, yanking at it aggressively and shoulder barging the door. It was definitely locked. That means someone HAD to be inside. And, it couldn't have been James; unless, it WAS James. What if he'd passed out in the bathroom and needed to go to hospital? Shit. He felt like he had a valid excuse now to open the door by force, so he leant back and gave it the strongest kick he could manage. Then he did it again. The wooden panels bended and bulged. He kept kicking. Breaking down a door was a lot harder than in the movies. After a dozen kicks the lock was dangling down from the handle and there was a two inch gap ajar. For the final move he leapt into it, pushing the weight and force of his unfit body against the weak panels, which swung open, ricocheted off the basin to the left and smacked him in the head. He rubbed the top of his noggin and looked up from the floor. The legs of a bloodied body were hanging motionless down the side of the bathtub. He couldn't even tell it was James at first. There was blood all over his face, his eyes were gauged out, throat slit, nose chopped off, lips removed. The only thing that confirmed him were the clothes that he'd seen James wear before he left to get food. What on Earth had even happened? His heart was slamming into his chest like the beats of his foot against the door a second ago. He still had the knife in his hand. Was the killer still around? He felt sick with terror. He closed the door and held it there with his feet. Shit. His phone was still in his room. He was thinking of yelling for help, but if the killer was still in the house, that would just encourage him to break into the weak door immediately. After all, what would the killer have to lose at that point? But fuck it, what else could he do? "HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELP!" He screamed at the top of his lungs. "I'M TRAPPED IN THE BATHROOM AND MY ROOMMATE IS DEAD! HE WAS MURDERED! HEEEEEEEEELP!" He kept screaming over and over again, sandwiched between the bathtub and the closed door. After five minutes of screaming, there was a small crowd outside the front door. They knocked loudly, offering assistance. "MY FLATMATE'S BEEN MURDERED. CALL THE POLICE!" He told them. A few minutes later, he could hear sirens approaching from the distance and a wave of relief swept over him. For a couple of minutes while the police were breaking in the door, his thoughts turned to his friend and his healthy pale-red skin. His small, round-shaped head with his oak-coloured hair arranged smartly. His widthy stubble and his strong jawline with the triangular chin. His bushy eyebrows and piercing hazel eyes that looked like tiny portals into a new universe. His straight nose. His playful ears that stuck out the perfect measurement from each side of his head. The archetypal image of young manhood that he had become obsessed by and fallen in love with; those features that aligned so exquisitely well they inspired a profound rapture, taking one back to an earlier point in history, when all was quieter and genuine joy was a possibility; a time where not everything was known. The front door crashed open and the police yelled up. His legs on the door relaxed, and he left the bathroom. Several seconds passed before he appeared at the stairs. "I just went to get my phone. It's me." He said, slowly making his way down. A policemen gasped. Another muttered, "Jesus Christ," in shock. It was an overweight blonde man with what looked to be a severe facial disfigurement. His nose was hanging off. His lips and eyes were bulging grotesquely. He appeared to be looking at himself in the reflection of his phone. On top of his head was a furry hat, but one officer noticed it looked more like one of those wigs with the plastic bottom, designed to look like a scalped head. He introduced himself, "I'm James." He said.