I don't where I'm going with it, critique away:

The beast came to visit me again last night. It’s eyes shone a blood red, laser red, burning into my weathered skin. My hands reached for my trusty black service weapon, a pristine Glock 19, just inches away on the piecemeal side dresser I ordered from Amazon covered with random shit I was too lazy to put where it belonged.

The beast’s fur shown with a merciless damnation as it pawed closer to my immovable body. With the strength of one thousand Greek Gods I released a heinous shriek, a cry for help that failed to ring out through my tattered studio apartment. Hell, the Wal-Mart sheets that covered my terrified face didn’t even flutter. My fight or flight instincts had been twiddled down to a mere flight, one of which I couldn’t accomplish.

A low rumble vibrated from the red eyed beast’s throat, it’s mouth sharp and pulled back, ready to devour every inch of shivering skin that encapsulated my beaten flesh and abused skeleton. Teeth gnashing together with a hunger that could only be curbed with the taste of my being, the beast continued towards me with the delicacy of an elite ballet dancer. Each step, each paw progression in my direction resulted in a thick, slimy swash of malicious saliva raining down in snaky streaks to the splintered hardwood floor I had walked hundreds of times before.

The hunger in it’s eyes, in it’s brain, was giving me hunger pains. My chest tightened like I had consumed a novelty rubber band ball in one bite and it excruciatingly rested in the center of my body, wedged between my hypertensive heart and the two lungs I happily blackened with a couple decades of Marlboro consumption.

The beast’s nails clicked with each terrifying step, an unsettling anxious click that resonated through my ears directly targeting my amygdalae triggering an overflowing amount of fear.