Delia’s head was in the refrigerator. I was going to get a bottle of tea and there it was, staring forlornly up at me from the crisper. I turned around and caught a glimpse of him at the window. It was then that the police knocked on my door to interview me.
You may wonder why I’m not more perturbed by this. The thing is, aside from the initial shock of things. I’m not really that afraid. Anxious, yes. But since the anxiety disorder stopped being a problem (and even during its hayday, on occasion) I’ve always faced stressful situations numbly as a challenge to overcome. I can freak out after everything’s all over. Whether ‘over’ consists of escape or death, I don’t know. Quite frankly, I intend to live a while but I wouldn’t be surprised if I died. It’s happened to stronger people than me, after all. Whatever happens, happens.
I closed the door to the fridge and let the cops in. They weren’t there long. I had a Tell-Tale Heart moment where I was convinced that the fridge door would magically spring open, or the officers would smell something off, but I managed to not look at it once. I answered all of their questions, and they left. As the door shut, one of the officers asked me to “Give us a heads up if you hear anything.” When they were gone, I collapsed with laughter. I really don’t know if it was the terrible, unintentional pun, or a form of stress-release, but I’ll take it. I checked the refrigerator again, and Delia’s head was gone. Of course. I expect he might use it to try to incriminate me again, but I’m not going to crystal ball.
Things do seem to be escalating. I have yet to see a corporeal Hallowed/Proxy. I’m expecting things to get violent soon. Call it ‘justified paranoia’. If that becomes the case, I have a few things hidden away in a varnished wood toolbox. I’m not banking on their success, but it’s better than nothing. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put on some Oingo Boingo and get my homework done.