The Watcher

He knows her like the back of his hand, is she the only one?

The Watcher

I watched her, through the hazy window of her bedroom. Her eyes, her lips, her hair. She fascinated me.

The moonlight played on her face... on her lips. I watched her shuffle in her sleep for what seemed like the perfect eternity until I felt the sun on the back of my neck. I watched her again for a short moment before she woke, rose from her disheveled bed and stretched away the stiffness from sleep. I watched her make breakfast: cinnamon oats, just like yesterday. I was truly intrigued by her. Her life, her love for her dog and her body, perfectly proportioned.

I kept my eyes on her, following her around the house. I knew every window for every room like the back of my hand. I navigated them until night fell.

It was a dark night, quieter than usual. As I moved to the living room window, rain started to fall. Just like every other night, she pulls on her jeans and left the house. Empty.

She started walking to her nearby shop. I waited...

She returned home, with three plastic bags. The rain was still falling from the dark grey sky. She unlocked the door and placed the three bags on her wooden kitchen table. The smell of a roast dinner still lingered in the room. She shouted for her dog calling it to eat, but no reply. She tried again... Nothing. A smirk slowly grew on my face. Maybe she thought it was sleeping...

After emptying the contents of the bags, she locked her doors, sealed her windows and continued into her bedroom, and closed the door behind her. She teasingly stripped off her wet clothing and shook out her hair, not knowing she had eyes watching her. My eyes. She got into bed and switched off the lamp that lay by her bed. And she was slowly drifting off to sleep.

We were finally alone.

Her new perfume tingled my senses. The touch of her skin, so soft against mine. Just how I imagined it. Her hair smooth like velvet, I took a lock to keep. I brush my trembling but experienced hand against her warm cheek. Just one touch, still asleep.

Her lips rosy pink, so close I could taste. But now her eyes met mine. Awake.

This was sooner than I expected, sorry my love... Your last breath you must take.

My gloves squeaked as I tenderly ran the scalpel against her soft, white neck. Her blood shot out and temporarily blinded me. The warm red stuff tasted nice. I looked down at her naked chest and made a 'Y' incision. My many years of training taught me well...

I stared down at her naked body, she lay lifelessly against her blood-stained bed. She was sprawled out making our battle noticeable. Her blood dripped from her fingertips making small puddles on her hardwood floor. An irony smell filled the already dense air that hung around us. A nauseating smell, but I liked it.

Her lips drained of colour, her new perfume; overpowered by the smell of her own blood. I leaned in and let my tongue run against her neck.

I fell to my knees, my hands in my hair, only now do I realise that my love was gone. My life... Empty. I slowly leaned over her draining body. I placed my still trembling hand against her hitched hair, I leaned in and kissed her pale white forehead, her cheek and her still soft lips.

I removed the blood-stained surgical gloves from my clammy hands; careful not to leave them behind. What lay in my hands was the final piece of the puzzle.

I looked at her, in her wide, fear-filled eyes and smiled. This lock of hair will match the others just fine.

psychological
Read next: Run Necromancer
Thema Holland


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