The Intruder

by Freida McFadden

“What the hell is wrong with you, you crazy bitch?” I assume that’s a rhetorical question.

I don’t need anyone hogging the covers or snoring. I feel sorry for all those poor souls who have to share their beds every night.

I had forgotten how much I used to love to read. It’s one of the many bonuses to my self-imposed isolation.

As an adult, you just lie in bed, struggling with your insomnia and trying to stave off your own dark thoughts alone.

When someone deserves bad things, he says, it’s sometimes up to you to dispense justice.