"Twisted" drabbles by Jonathan Mills

Five days

Twisted

I came home the first day to find a window, broken.
The second day, a coil of barbed wire covered in excrement on the doorstep.
The third day came with a small decorative picnic basket, considerately filled with dead rats.
On fourth day I was greeted by the cat, very dead and nailed to the door, the word “FUCKER” shaved in to its fur.
The fifth day found me opening a box containing the grinning, severed head of my mother, “DIE FUCKER HOPE YOU DIE” written across her face in black lipstick.
You bring me such wonderful things, my dear.