I need the Tin Man to oil the hinges on my door just as much as I need the Lion’s bravery. I’m shaking like a leaf, but I refuse to cower and let someone walk around my house freely. Flipping the switch on, the few working lights flicker, illuminating the hallway just enough for my mind to play tricks on me and conjure shadow people residing just beyond the light. And as I slowly make my way towards the staircase, I feel eyes from the pictures lining the walls watching me as I pass by. Watching me make yet another stupid mistake. As if they’re saying stupid girl, you ’re about to get murdered. Watch your back. They're right behind you. The last thought has me gasping and turning around, though I know no one is actually behind me. My stupid fucking brain is a little bit too imaginative. A trait that works wonders for my career, but I don’t fucking appreciate it in this very moment. Forging on at a quicker pace, I make my way down the stairs. Immediately, I turn on the lights, wincing from the brightness that burns my retinas. Better than the alternative. I would die on the spot if I was searching around with a single beam of light and found someone lurking in my house that way. One second no one is there, and the next second hello, there’s my murderer. No fucking thank you. When I don’t find anyone in the living room or kitchen, I whip around and turn the knob on my front door. It’s still locked, which means that whoever left somehow managed to relock the door. Or they never actually left. Sucking in a sharp breath, I storm through the living room and into the kitchen, gunning straight for the knives. But I catch a glimpse of something resting on the island out of my peripheral, freezing me in place. My eyes jump to the item, and a curse escapes my lips when I see a single red rose resting on the countertop. I stare at the flower like it’s a live tarantula, staring straight back at me and daring me to come closer. If I do, it’ll surely eat me alive. Letting out a shaky breath, I pluck the flower from the countertop and roll it in my fingers. The thorns have been severed from the stem, and I get the strange inclination that it was done purposely to save my fingers from being pricked. But that notion is crazy. If someone is sneaking into my house at night and leaving me flowers, their intentions are the exact opposite of virtuous. They’re trying to scare me. Curling my fist, I crush the flower in the palm of my hand and throw it in the trash, and then I resume my original mission. I rip open the drawer, the silverware