I stabbed him. Several times, actually. A couple times in the face, even.
Sorry, that made me giggle and it really shouldn't have. That would be the panic.
It was a miracle it didn't fight back. Those claws would have shredded me to ribbons. It just shrieked--one of the most horrible sounds I have ever heard it make--and it ambled off my bed and to the door.
It turned back to me. It spoke.
It said my time was up. I'm not even sure it used actual words, but that was how my brain interpreted it. And then with a snarl it ran off. Just like that. So now I wait.
The shotgun was relatively easy to come by. I won't go into details, I don't want the owner to get in trouble. But I'm huddled up in a corner of my bedroom, facing the front door. I have an end table next to me, with my laptop so I can type this. I'm wrapped up in blankets, mostly to hide the shotgun I have aimed at the door. I figure I have one shot, and the sick feeling at the base of my skull tells me he's on his way. I guess you'll know if I survive, and if not...well I've made peace with things. And if I can just convince my hands to stop shaking, I might even believe that.
Now I wait.