The package on my doorstep had my name, but I definitely didn’t order it.

Typical, I thought, groaning involuntarily as I stretched down to pull the sodden newspaper from underneath it. My lose dressing gown barely covering me hung low, dipping into the melting snow surrounding my doorstep, like a chip into ‘gauc’. The lingering snow from last night's storm had completely covered the street but strangely no footsteps lead up to my door.

So how, in fact, did this package get here in the first place?

I glared down at the mysterious box. It couldn’t have been something I’d ordered. Every credit or debit card I owned had been rejected weeks ago from all online sites and it wasn't my birthday for another 4 months (not that I had anyone to send my something). Being unemployed for 11 weeks had left me not only poor, but unmotivated and tired, which I believe some would diagnose as depression? If only I had the energy or motivation to look it up.

Perhaps the box was for a neighbour? There was no further details of sign of where it come from. Only my name scribbled over a half-crumpled cardboard box, lazily taped together. Sod it. I picked it up with a huff and headed inside, completely unaware of the blood stains seeping out the bottom corners, or the black van watching me from across the road.

I whacked it on the kitchen table and turned to make my third coffee of the morning. That was the most exciting part of my days now. A mild caffeine rush between 09.30am and lunch. The kettle screeched louder and louder as it boiled. My mind blocked it out. My attention instead drifted to the pile of washing that had been sitting by the foot of the washer for a week now; atop the disgusting laundry was a pair of black, laced underwear.

When on earth had I worn those?

I picked them up for an inspection and a sniff. Ugh. Confirmed. Definitely used. Traditionally these had been my ‘lucky date pants’, used only in dire circumstances when I needed a little one-night-stand to pick me up. I realised even at the time this was a terrible coping mechanism for my feelings. Nonetheless, it was something I could control in my life, and more important it worked! Even the most withstanding lesbian couldn’t resist a perky arse covered in seductive lace. My last tinder date had been 3 months ago; before work laid me off, before Mum got sick, before the weather turned, before I felt like all was lost.

What does it take to bring someone back from the dead, metaphorically speaking? I needed a catalyst. Something to remind me I was alive. Problem was I could barely keep track of what was going on around me, let alone inside of me.

The kettle shut itself off. My life became silent again. I placed my already used mug by the make-shift coffee station, consisting of stolen hotel sachets and powdered milk.

I was about to take a sip when I saw a new peculiar sight; across from me, on the moulded white walls of my London flat, was a bright, red spec of light, hovering on the wall. I approached it, looking for it's source. I lifted my finger to touch it, but before I could make contact it moved, darting an inch to the left, and then back right. I found myself in a cat-like situation, chasing it back and forth, trying to touch it. My fixation got the better of me once again, as I continued the chase not noticing another red dot appear. Then another. And another. More appearing each second until I took a step back and saw 20 polka dots scattered on the wall.

Oh shit!

As if my body knew, it dropped down to the floor right as the first bullet smashed through the window, shooting straight into the wall over the box, now dripping with blood from the corner on my table. I army crawled as best I could away, my elbows sticking to the uncleaned floor beneath me.

Before I could make it out and into the hallway, a pair of black boots burst through the side window, landing right in front of my face. They looked thick and heavy. Threatening but...fashionable? My eyes traversed up the boots, past the thick black leggings and tightly zipped jacket to see a tall, muscular woman before me. She unclipped a caribena from the ropes she’d swung in on and ducked down beside me.

“Who the…what the fuck is going on?”

The woman raised her hand to her ear, “Eyes on the ground, I’m in. Yes, one civilian on site.” She looked right at me, saying nothing more.

She had dark hair pulled tightly back, which showed the sharp edge of her cheeks. Looking into her eyes I swore I could see a shimmer of glittered eye shadow. I pulled myself against the wall, sitting up right but low to avoid the bullets still bursting in from across the room.

The woman grabbed me, forcing me lower. “Listen to me and stay low,” she began. The thrill and adrenaline had my blood pumping, heart racing and (disgustingly) back sweating. Or was it just the fact I hadn’t been this close to a woman in a long time. A strong, beautiful woman I might add.

She darted over to the table and slipped the box to the floor, pulling the tape free. I peered up, curious what she was unpacking. A bullet ricocheted from the corner of the table, starling her. She stumbled forward, ducking to safety, knocking over the box with enough force for it to slide right over to me. As if in slow motion, out of the box rolled a bloodied, severed hand with a silver ring on the picky.

“What the hell!”, I screeched, backing away.

The sight of a man’s hand had never done much for me, but this one brought up all the wrong feelings and questions. Like, where did it comes from? Why was it on my door? And where the hell is the rest of this chap?

“Damn,” the woman whispered, lifting her hand once again to speak to her earpiece. “It’s Arnold, they must have got him.” Without hesitation, she grabbed the hand and pried the ring off it’s finger, placing it in a secure pouch on her belt.

“I-I…What’s going on?” I stammered.

She looked me up and down, with what I swear was a small smile in the corner of her mouth. “And the civilian? What should I do to her?”

Though easily meant as a slight threat, I couldn't help but feel a little turned on from how she spoke about me. Monotone voice. Violent tendencies. Dismissal of my presence. By all terms, she’d be considered ‘my type’.

“Understood,” she said, taking my arm in hers. “The situation is escalating too rapidly for us to leave you unattended. You’re going to have to come with me where my team can de-brief you on the situation, but right now I need you to do exactly as I say if you want to get out of here alive. Can you do that? Can you do as I say?”

And in that moment, I finally felt something. It was anticipation. It was excitement. Possibly also arousal. Could this be the catalyst I needed to feel alive again? How did I feel about risking my life and follow this stranger out of my house, potentially into the arms of those with the guns firing at us? I didn’t know, but looking in her eyes I could see there was an adventure to be had.

I nodded, ready to take instruction as she headed into the hallway. I shuffled along after her, pausing to look back. Amidst the destruction of where my kitchen used to be, while the walls and dust flew through the air, as if it were a sign sat my little black lace pants. I reached for them, staying low and whipped them into my robe pocket. Regardless of what happened next, who this woman was, or if I’d find myself alive tomorrow, it never hurts to carry a lucky pair of little black undies….just in case ;)