I used to fear imaginary things: monsters, ghosts, mummies, and things that go bump in the night. When I got older, I focused on more realistic threats: rape, car accidents, social humiliation, conservative world leaders…
Now here I was facing attack from the kind of horror that I long ago relegated to childish nightmares.
Except that I was awake, and this was real, and I could very well be killed in a disgustingly gory way.
Maybe I should have gained some comfort from the fact that I was loved. Adored. Worshipped, even. When you are in love, you are supposed to hold hands, and face death with serene acceptance.
Maybe we could share a dramatic kiss as we died in the tradition of star crossed lovers everywhere.
“Fuck that shit,” I said as my chainsaw sputtered to life and began to roar. “Let’s slice off some heads.”