Hey you, yeah you. I appreciate the effort, but you’ve got to be kidding me. First of all, you’ve smashed the door wide open, leaving wood bits and glass shards everywhere. Secondly, you’ve tracked mud all over my hardwood floors (confession, they’re actually laminate).

Now those very same dirty boots are conspicuously staring out at me, from under those curtains. Your body protruding three feet out from the wall also doesn’t help. I’m not sure why you thought that was a good hiding spot.

What are you waiting for, aren’t you going to attack? Wasn’t that the point of all this? Or are you embarrassed that I called you out before you could complete your murderous plan, and now suffer from some sort of movie monster performance anxiety?

You can at least claim a small victory in that I’m not exactly sure who you are yet. You could be Freddy or Jason, or possibly Michael or even The Candyman, for all I know. To be completely honest, I don’t really care. I’ve just come home after a twelve-hour shift at one of my exploitative jobs and I’m too tired to give a shit.

You think hiding behind my grommet curtains, while holding an axe or sharpening your finger knives, is going to scare me? You don’t know fear until you’re forced to work in the gig economy without many health benefits or hopes for a decent retirement plan.

Maybe you didn’t expect me home so soon. I’m a bit early because my employer doesn’t give me any bathroom breaks, so I’m forced to urinate into coke cans in my delivery van. They expect me to drop off over two hundred packages across this traffic-plagued city each day, barely leaving any time for basic human functions.

I’m only here for a moment to alleviate my stomach pains in a half-decent place (it’s only a basement apartment but it does have exposed brick), and to dump the overflowing soda cans before I start my next shift, hauling food orders all over town to people who are too lazy to cook for themselves.

If you (Jigsaw or Leatherface, or whoever the hell you are) really want to kill me, there’s probably nothing I can do about it. But if you must, at least give me the dignity of relieving myself one last time in a place other than my 1994 Chevy Astro Van.

And do me a favor, dump a bag of Purina Pro Plan kibble on the ground. I’d like to rest peacefully for a few days before my cats start feasting on my decaying corpse.