It's late at night, and you've found yourself stuck doing laundry. You would normally just hold off such a chore until the following day, but it had reached a point of critical mass. You found yourself without the basics of laundry, especially socks and underwear. You decide you'll just take a small load down to the laundromat and get it done quickly.

At this time of night you're the only person in the place, probably because you're the only person crazy enough to be doing laundry at this ungodly time of night. Even though the place is brightly lit and you've got your iPod going to drown out the humming of the machines, you still feel a sinking sensation in your stomach. Perhaps it's the loneliness. You've been alone before, but being alone in a place like this which is normally packed with people, you feel disconnected. In a situation like this you might be able to fool yourself into thinking the rest of the world has vanished and you are the sole survivor of some dreaded apocalypse.

You get lost in your daydreaming and the music from your earbuds when you notice a man sitting just a few feet away from you. You aren't sure when he got there; you hadn't even seen him until just now. When you take notice of him he stands up and walks over to you. He wears a cheap looking gray suit which is ragged and torn, and has his face covered by a ski mask. You stand up and begin to back away from him.

“I'm here for your clothes,” he says, pulling a large knife from a holster on his belt.

You point to the dryer that has your clothes. It beeps loudly announcing its completion. Just a few more minutes and you would have been out of this horrible place and not in this situation.

“The ones you're wearing,” he continues, gesturing with his knife towards you.

You have nowhere to run. You consider screaming but nobody would hear you and even if they could it would just anger him into doing something rash. You slowly begin to strip off your clothes. Maybe if you give this sicko what he wants you'll get out of this without being harmed. Part way through removing your shirt, the man stops you.

“Not those clothes!” he barks, now agitated.

You don't have any time to think about what he could possibly mean before it happens. He sticks his knife deep into your stomach and begins to pull it across slowly. You feel every moment of the agonizing ripping and a scream finally escapes your lips. He carves off a piece of your skin and lifts it up to his eyes. The last thing you hear is the man's approval.

“What a beautiful fabric you wear.”