there's someone in my house

I'm sleeping with a knife laid on my windowsill because there's someone in my house. They're creaking floorboards and banging downs but a struggle to be found. It's me, my dog and I in a house fit for a man and ten wives, to never find out about the other nine.

The lighting doesn't exactly cast obvious but tempts the questioning wether it's just me, my dog and I. And what brings on this joy of all assumptions? Not just the whine of the hinges or the wimper of the golden guard but all the lights go out, the power cuts and the storm lets rip on cue with lightening entourage.

How tall is he? Or is it a she? I crossed my fingers for the latter so i could take that bitch down. Under the bed was no-one, I checked. Behind the doors were walls but it doesn't stop my thinking though; how vulnerable a home can be. We're just a number on a street, sitting ducks to them. That house with the bmw and the double glazing. We're asking for it really.

So i'm sitting on my bed with a blade at arms length, mind flicking through thriller scenes for what to do next. I shout. Not a word in return, or even a hesitated twitch. There's no-one in my house.

But that doesn't stop me pissing sideways to the seat, keeping one eye on the bathroom door.
what a pussy