Jarrod was sat at the small, wooden writing desk in the corner of his room, reading one of the many books he'd swiped off the bookshelf in a sleep-induced stupor earlier that morning. He had leafed through the pages more as a theraputic deterrent to the nightmares that had plagued his sleep than as a form of light reading, the feel of the thin substance between his fingers and the yellow-tinged glare of the light settling his nerves and steadying his heartbeat. He closed the covers of the book, about to pick up another, when he heard a dull but resounding 'thud' from a lower room of the house.
He sat frozen for a few moments, straining his ears, listening for an identical sound that might betray the presence of an intruder... An simple burgular, or a hunter?
Stumbling upright, legs numb and unfeeling from lack of use, Jarrod began roughly pulling on random pieces of clothing that littered the floor. Denim rousers, plain white t-shirt... where dafuq was his other sock? He searched under the bed, beneath the duvet, in the drawers and finally under the other pieces of clothing, but it was nowhere in sight. He heaved a sigh, spying the renegade fabric atop, of all things, the wardrobe. He grabbed it and proceeded to half-run, half-hop to the doorway as he pulled it over his bare foot - only to trip over his messy floor before he made it, smacking his face off the door handle with a sickening crack.
Everything went black for a moment as he was looking up at the ceiling, wondering if he was dead or not. Gingerly, Jarrod rubbed his poor nose with the back of his hand, dark liquid staining his pale skin. Great. He just hoped it wasn't broken.
Picking himself off the floor and making a mental note to clean his room, he opened the door, stumbled down the stairs and made his way to the kitchen, where he assumed the noise had came from.