Early update because I might be writing my other stories instead next week. Like my SVT ones. 

Okay, alright. Stay calm.

My mum had always told me about the dangers of travelling alone, even when it’s within the country.

“Grab a guy with you. I don’t trust anyone smaller than you and that’s all your female friends.” Maybe they were right about listening to words of wisdom. I should have taken them to heart before something like this happened. People were also right about important things in life being the last you see in your mind before your end nears.

My mind was rehearsing a hundred ways to escape the maniac or monster that was now in the same room as me. I was pretty sure, because I could feel his/ her/ its breath near me, and the gusts of wind attack my face right now had to come from some source that was not me. Of all the times I’d lounged at home to watch TV, maybe I should have watched something useful. Like survival shows on how to escape a house intruder potential potential kidnapper or maybe serial murderer, instead of fluffy dramas like Rich Man and 100 Days Husband.

What did those teach me? Offer a winsome smile and get a drop-dead gorgeous rich guy in this economy so that you can have a happy ending.

Do I need that to survive at this moment?

No.

I came around about five minutes ago, but as with any good drama fan would know, the first key to survival is always to pretend to be dead before your predator. Until I figure out a plan of action, I suppose I should just pretend to be knocked out.

“I know you’re awake, you’ve been frowning like you’re thinking.”

Okay, so we can establish it’s a he. Whoever my assailant was, he certainly had a much younger and boyish voice than I’d expected. Nothing gruff like a burly man or oddly sinister. Just like a regular boy.

My eyes fluttered open to see him fanning me profusely, visibly concerned but also...relieved? What was he thinking? Was he the kind who liked his victim to be conscious and struggling before killing them? Oh my gosh, that’s so creepy and psychopathic and-

“I don’t know what you’re thinking but I’m glad you’re awake. And stop sleeping so rigidly, I didn’t tie you up if that’s what you assumed. You’re just under a blanket.”

Oh gosh he’s tied me up with a blanket! Is this what murderers say nowadays? To calm their victims and let their guard down? Or is blanket a new euphemism for wire cords nowadays. Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh-

I sat up so abruptly that the platinum blonde-haired boy fell back in surprise, although that was also partly due to me headbutting him in the process. Yet there was no time to be stunned by my own pounding forehead. I reached for my hot pink floral slippers and wielded it, turning it towards the boy on the floor. He was staring at me, but I would like to think the tables have turned and he was truly afraid of my weapon. Oh, he was so going to taste my slipper-slapper moves.

“Who are you, and what were you doing under my mattress?” I said, trying to sound intimidating by lowering my voice. It totally worked.

“Who are you and what are you doing on my bed?”

Okay, that was unexpected.

In the silence that persisted, I finally took a good look at my “monstrous attacker”.

I don’t mean to be rude, or presumptuous for that matter, but he’s small. I mean, his giant canary yellow hoodie (which is hurting my eyes and was probably the blur of yellow that I saw) was wrapped around more air than an actual body. His long platinum blonde fringe framed a petite and handsome face that begged for the jealousy of many females (okay, why am I thinking of that again? Scrap that, he’s a psychopath for goodness sake!). His hair strands were sticking together at some parts, making me wonder if it was due to perspiration or the rain outside.

My survival instincts had yet to subside. A smol bean, or pea, could still be a dangerous one.

“Answer my question first. You’re an intruder in a girl’s room, and obviously you’re the dangerous one. Nobody in the right mind would hide in the storage space of their alleged own bed. I have a weapon, and I will not hesitate to use it. Speak.”

I waved my slippers a few times to make a point. It flapped lousily in the air.

“This is my house! Mine and Suzy’s.” He replied calmly. At the same time the suspicious male stood to height (which, excuse me again, isn’t very tall) and raised the fan that he had been using to revive me to confront me in a fencing position.

So here we were, slipper versus fan, a Shaolin and staring showdown. An epic kungfu confrontation of the century.

“Don’t be ridiculous, you’re clearly not the guy that I’ve been sending all my Airbnb text messages to,” I said with false gusto. Did he catch the hitch in my voice?

The male looked at me seemingly baffled and lowered his choice of weapon, the fan in his hand now by the side of his knees. “What do you mean an Airbnb? I’m just coming back to my own room.”

I guffawed.

“This is an Airbnb dude. You have to book it, not trespass and claim that it’s yours. I’m guessing you’re drunk and all, but you have to leave now or I’m calling the two hosts and the police,” I threatened. My fear was slowly transforming agitation, as I registered that this guy seemed more lost than he was harmful.

“Okay, but does Suzy live here, still?”

Oh gosh, was he an obsessed stalker? Tough to be a pretty girl sometimes, having to endure all these creepers.

“No,” I lied. Better to keep my kind host alive and well away from this amateur stalker.

Yet my words impacted this man a lot more than I had imagined. Maybe I was imagining a fit, or a crazed string of laughter, or maybe resuming our physical opposition. Anything but a teary and torn expression, coupled with a disappointed pout.

The question was: do I prefer emotional stalker with actual human emotions that was now threatening to bawl, or a dangerous potential criminal whom I would gladly slap?

Urgh.

“Er...sir?”

Yellow maniac didn’t respond to me, but instead looked around to survey the room, as if to verify something. His bitter countenance told me that whatever he was trying to confirm had came true, and he was not at all pleased with that conclusion.

“What’s your name?”

“Suzy…” He mumbled under his breath.

“That’s the name of the host here, you’re clearly not Suzy.”

I didn’t know why but somehow my words seemed to renew hope in him. He looked up and with reignited passion, started asking asking me a bunch of questions.

“Does she still live here?”

“Is she dating someone else?”

“Did she tell you this room is for sale?”

“Or did you just remove all the old belongings here and put your stuff here? Claiming this room to be your own?”

Wait what?

“Hold your horses there mister! That is just a gross accusation on my part. I don’t know what and who you are, but so far you’ve only been hiding under my bed, aggressively interrogating me about my Airbnb host, and then tried to attack me. And now you are trying to accuse me of trespassing this place and claiming it for my own? Excuse you, I paid rent!” I snapped, and threw one of my slippers at him. It landed squarely on his head.

“What was that for!” He put up his fan in defense.

“Self-defense, intruder. Why am I even talking to you, I should be screaming and calling the police. Oh my gosh you’ve been distracting me I should-”

Before I could scream for help (something that I should have done maybe an hour ago), he placed the open fan onto my mouth. As if it was actually effective as a voice stopper.

“You know