Disclaimer: I own nothing Twilight-related, not the stalking or blood-craving or the strange love. Stephenie Meyer owns it all, but keep in mind this storyline is mine and mine alone.
A/N: I would like to thank ManiacMotherland who has beta-ed for me and given many advices in this one-shot. I owe you everything!
Warning: Might contain offensive content, and those who cannot stomach blood is advised to look away right now.
Your Personal Stalker
I look down on the girl, Jessica is her name, and watch as a few drops of blood run from her mouth and her eyes stare at me with pure fear. She looks frantically around the room for help, an escape, a salvation. I sigh and shake my head. When will she learn that I am her salvation? That I am her only help? I've been telling her that for hours, listening to her useless cries for help, the tears staining her cheeks, mascara running and blush smudged. For hours, and still she doesn't understand that there is only one end, and that is through me.
For weeks, I've watched her, understood her and known her. Two weeks knowing her every move. Two weeks savoring the sight of her, trying to feel her inside me, to really feel my heart pound inside my chest. I tried this time to feel it, really tried. But it was all in vain because I can't know until I see it, the red substance running inside her veins.
Red—passion, love, hate, redemption, seduction.
I crave it, I want it, but most of all I need it. To see it paint their bodies.
Pure against impure.
Love against hate.
"Please," she begs and a new stream of tears runs down her puffy, red cheeks, trying to plead with my humanity. But I have none.
"Ssshh," I coo in her ear, patting her head like a dog needing comfort. "It will all be okay." As I say the words, her eyes light up with hope. Until she sees my hand, clutching onto my finest knife, pressing against her thigh and her eyes turn frantic again.
"It will all be over soon. Just feel the rush," I say and cut her skin. Her body arches against mine and her cries would be deafening if they weren't so magnificent to listen to.
Line after line, cut after cut, I listen to her screams grow stronger and stronger until I come to her inner thigh. The arteries are so fragile and they ooze life. Quickly, her face becomes pale and her cries lessen. I never move from my spot above her body, actually feeling alive for a moment as the life disappears from her. Then the glow weakens. It always does.
I don't stay for long after her body stills and her final pleas cease. I quickly put on my clothes and dispose of her. The fire in my chest slightly appeased but my mind ultimately disappointed.
She wasn't enough. Her blood so pale and her cries futile, just a stupid little girl slightly more persistent than the others in the wasted belief that someone would come to save her. The others had realized quickly that there was no escaping me, not after I had made up my mind and wanted them. Stupidity and ignorance is something I can't stand, so Jessica was not the one for me. Not the one for my heart. I would have to find another, and soon.
With her body buried deeply under the ground in an unmarked grave, I went home to rest.
Tomorrow another day, another hunt, another prey. Tomorrow, the hunter will arise again, but for now, I am in desperate need of rest.
I have always liked orientation week at the local university. So many pretty girls to choose from, young and oblivious to the real world. They have name-tags on, which makes them easy to remember. They stick to the people they are assigned to, and I have the entire campus memorized. They don't think; they only do what they are told. Quite simply, they are a cinch to track.
I disregard the African-Americans—not because of some twisted notion of racism but because I crave the look of blood up against paler flesh—and that, of course, excludes the Hispanic and Asian girls as well. Red-heads I also turn away from. They are more hot-tempered and feisty than I prefer. I like my women to be obedient and understanding, not melodramatic and moody. I abhor blondes. Most of them, all drama queens. And strawberry blondes, not my taste at all, not after Tanya, who was so reluctant to give me pleasure in any way. Dark-haired girls aren't so bad, but my favorite is a doe-eyed, brown-haired girl. Angela had been an angel, giving up quickly and saying such sweet words about her beloved Ben as her life faded away in my hands.
So much love, so many lives. Yes, orientation week truly is my favorite week of the year.
I see Alice Brandon by the name-tag booth smiling happily at every person, no matter what mood they are in or whatever foul words they throw her way. She is a bundle of pure energy that one and keeps her hand busy printing name after name for strangers, smiling to every single one. She has too much energy to waste, and so I let her be.
Brunette after brunette pass my vision but none catch my eye. Plain after plain, overdone after overdone. I want beauty, simple and true beauty, not a surgical face on a plastic body. They are all fake and I crave something real.
From my seat on the bench, I see them all. I ignore the familiar faces passing by and they ignore me, because they sense something is wrong. Instead, I stare intently at the name tag booth where Alice is now smiling at some new stranger and handing him a tag. It is not her usual smile but it is not a frown or grimace either. No, it's astonishment and then glee. Determination and joy are next, followed by embarrassment and shame. Alice feels a rush of so many emotions, all because of just this one man. I find myself intrigued.
He is a tall one, like me, but with curly blond hair reaching the flips of his ears, wearing a leather jacket and ragged jeans. I can't see his face from the way he is leaning over the table and whispering something in her ear, causing her giggle like a little girl, and I am impressed someone could do that to her. She has always been such a strong individual. But then again, my eyes are not usually focused on the mating game.
Then I see her. On the right side of the blonde-haired man, his arm is draped over a small body, with mahogany brown hair fluttering over his leather-clad arm.
The man steps Alice aside for a little bit and another girl takes over the booth in her absence, but that doesn't interest me. No, it is the angel next to them that my world suddenly revolves around. Her long, creamy legs in short khaki shorts, a long-sleeved, thin cotton sweater hugging her amazing curves, accentuating her ample bosom. A heart-shaped face, pale like mine, white teeth nibbling on her red, plump lips and her deep brown eyes fixed on me.
Her eyes widen and I wonder what goes through her head when she tilts her it to the side and watches me. I don't know how to react; the girl astonishes me, not reacting like she should. Most people are scared of me. It's a natural human instinct to stay away from what they sense is evil. But this girl, she keeps watching me, like nothing is wrong. Just curious.
A heart-shaped face. It is embedded into my mind, with deep brown eyes staring into my soul.
But then the blond-haired man steps away from Alice and wraps his arm around the girl's shoulders, and her stare drops to her feet, a blush appearing in her cheeks. A beautiful color, so full, so red, so enchanting. I want it, I crave it.
But the need is pushed aside by a wave of different emotions. Before turning and walking away, the blond-haired man kisses the top of my girl's head, deepening her blush. Jealousy flows through me and I crush together the cup of coffee in my hand. The heat scalds me as the fluid runs down my hand, but I don't care. I don't feel it.
I just see red. I only feel jealousy.
I hate him. And I hate her, because she belongs to me, not him. Not anyone but me. She is beautiful and her blood is red. I want to see it, flowing down her cream-white legs.
I want him to suffer, to watch as I take her as mine. I want him to feel the hollowness in his heart as I take her. I want him to feel as bad as me, as empty as me.
They walk away, from the still smiling Alice, and me—broken on a park bench with black coffee staining my clothes and burning my hands. Even with people glancing at me, curious and scared, I don't care about anything but the woman who belongs to me who is walking away with a man who is not me.
I don't know how I get to my apartment, but I can still remember the blinding rage that shoots through me when the beautiful doe-eyed girl slips past a red brick corner.
It's now dark outside, only a small streak of moonlight shining, and I am staring at the dead girl at my feet. The replacement girl. She's so small, can't even be legal yet, with dark hair that goes down to her shoulders. Her eyes are wide open with fear, light blue and staring up at me, frozen in the terror of the moment of her death. Who the hell is she? I can't remember her from campus, actually I can't remember seeing her anywhere before now.
But fuck, looking over her body, I cringe at the wounds scattered over her skin. Judging from the pale blood smudged all over her I know that I cut her too deep and too hasty. With anger. I don't remember taking her or making the cuts, but I do know that she never stood a chance. She isn't even naked. And I usually like to wait until they are naked before I slice them open.
I pick her up, never breaking a sweat because she is so light, so thin, only a child, and I take her with me to lay her to rest. Never bury them within the city, always in the outskirts. Less risk to be caught. But I don't take her to where I buried Jessica or the other woman I've taken from this town. I take her to willow-tree by the lake. It's a nice place, and the parents of this girl would like it that she rests somewhere peaceful beyond the noise and hassle of town. At least I would imagine so.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead and brush some dirt from my pants, sticking the shovel in the ground and letting out a hard sigh. My mind wonders, will I feel whole when I bury her? Will she be the one to ease the fire in my chest?
God I hope so, I need it to be her. I'm so sure this time.
Her file is small, a sign of a quiet life most of the time, a boring person perhaps, but there is nothing boring about even the smallest piece of information about her. Not to me.
Name: Isabella Marie Swan. Beautiful name.
D.O.B.: Tuesday, September 13, 06:50 a.m., 1989. Huh, a morning person.
Place of Birth: Forks, Washington. Small town girl too. Hmmm, Forks is a rainy town, explains her pale skin. And now she's 3000 miles away from home. A girl who dreams of something big. Who wants to become something big.
Parents: Charles and Renee Swan. They are still together it seems, so she grew up in a stable home. A happy kid then. Sane, down to earth. Perfect.
Her grades are impeccable, with the exception of calculus which stands out as a B on her otherwise perfect A report card. Smart girl. I like them smart. That way, they know what will happen. They can see what I am and understand the fate that they cannot run from. Jessica hadn't been smart, and judging by the mystery girl's apparent age, it's safe to say she wasn't much better. But the smart ones, oh the smart ones, they are the type that steers away from me, that sense they are being watched. They are intelligent enough to know fear, and the fear building up in them just makes the experience so much better.
I hear footsteps in the hall, so I close the computer file fast and cut the power to the computer, hiding in the dark corner faster than a person can blink, just in time before the door opens. A rumble of moans, groans and shifting of clothes fills the dark room as two pairs of feet make their way to the desk and the still-warm computer.
That dirty pig, Dean Banner, makes his way to the desk and pushes everything on it off to the ground. Pieces of paper flutter to the ground and end up under the desk. The computer dangles from its power cord down to the ground, swinging from side to side until it finally crashes to the ground. I smile a little, but it fades quickly once the disgusting scene continues on in front of me.
He has a girl with him. Heidi, I used to watch her but gave up on even before I sliced her skin. Heidi, I know for a fact she has slept with all of her previous bosses and most of her professors. Heidi, a slut and a whore. Heidi, now the Dartmouth dean of student's secretary, is on her knees in front of Banner sucking him off, making the most disgusting sounds I've ever heard.
Waiting, waiting for the moment they both are too caught up with their nauseating talk about cumming, oh god how I'm cumming, when they won't notice me stand up and walk out the door. It takes several minutes, several very painful minutes, but finally their moans are so loud that I jump to my feet and run out the door before they can hear me leave. It was a close call, to use Banner's computer to track Bella Swan. A stupid decision based on a fierce craving, and it almost blew everything.
But do I regret it?
Not at all.
It is a new rush I feel, not as strong as the one I am used to, but still a rush. And I got to know more about her. About my new prey. My new addiction. I would do it again in a heartbeat. That is, if I had a heart.
She wants to be a teacher, educate children about the fantasy worlds of Brontë and Austen, preach the words of Voltaire and Nietzsche, broaden the minds of hormone-crazed teenagers. She wants to teach.
She is a saint.
I've heard her talk about it, with her room-mate Rosalie Hale-the blonde Amazon from California in whom I have no interest-as they buy their morning shot of caffeine at Starbucks, talking with sleepy voices. They always start out small, chatting about random things like their childhood summers and vacations, countries they've visited. Rosalie has spent a lot of time on the European beaches, picking up various foreign specimens of the male species to take them home to fuck, while Isabella has only been to Mexico, once when she and her parents visited her Aunt Sarah who had spontaneously married a native man called Paulo, to attend a baby's christening. And then they wander into more serious topics like their dreams of the future.
I always stay close to where they sit, always within hearing-range, because I want so badly to know about every aspect of her life. But I never let them see my face, sitting with my back to them and pretending to read The Times, holding a pen and tapping the cross-word.
Always a pen, never a pencil, because honestly I don't need to erase any words once I write them. I am not even reading the clues.
It is now the day after Halloween, and the shop is mostly vacant with the exception of Rosalie, Bella, me and an old man sitting in the corner crunching on a dry bagel without any cream cheese on it. I sit right behind her, practically feeling the warmth radiate off her body, intensifying every time she moves.
Her hair is up today, wearing sweat-pants and an oversized hoodie zipped all the way up, and I can tell she's tired. And well, because they are talking about it.
"So, do you think I should go out with him?" Rosalie asks with her nose half-way down her cup, letting the steam warm her. She wants Bella's approval to go out with Emmet McCarty, a man I know too well to be comfortable with the fact that he could soon be spending time with the two girls, being close enough to notice that I'm watching them.
"I mean," she continues before Isabella has the time to reply. "I know he's like, already graduated, and he spends a lot of time at that computer job of his, but he's really cute and persistent and I really want to, but I don't know if I have the time."
"Rose," Bella interjects when her friend stops to take a breath. "You're young, you should do whatever you want to. I mean, of course I get why you're worried since he's five years older and has a lot more experiences with life, and I know you've worked hard to get in here and you don't want to throw it away. And, sorry-all those years with my nose stuck in romance-novels are kicking in here-but what if he's the one? You should try, and if it doesn't work out, then at least you know, right?"
Rosalie doesn't say anything for a while, contemplating I guess, but then lets out a sigh and responds. "You're right," she laughs. "It's funny. Here you are lecturing me about taking chances in life and love, and yet you've never been on a single date even though you've gotten tons of offers! I mean, you order the same thing every day, never trying something different or wavering from your life-plan. You tell me to take chances, but in your entire life, you have never stepped out from your comfort zone."
Even though Rosalie doesn't mean to sound like a bitch or judgmental, the way she talks to Bella makes me want to kill her with my bare hands. Forget "surveillance" or my cravings, all I want is to see the blood leave her body for talking to Isabella that way.
"I know that, Rose," she says back with a sigh and shifts in her seat once again, her pony-tail brushing against the back of my head when she does, although she doesn't notice. "I know my life is dull and lifeless, but it's comfortable, and what's so wrong about that?
"What's so wrong about knowing what you want and going after it? I know what I want, Rose. I want to get through college as fast as possible, I want to move to a small town like Forks but somewhere with less rain, I want to teach kids and inspire them the same way as my teachers did me. I want to influence people like that, while they are still impressionable and unsure about their direction in life. That's what I want, Rose, and that's what I'm going after. It's my dream. So for me, why go away from the plan and do something stupid to jeopardize it?"
I smile and get up and take the paper with me. Bella has told Rose to go to hell. Politely but still. I am in both heaven and hell at the same time and I wish Bella could join me here where I am. But that will have to wait for another time. Right now I just want to go home and sleep.
Thanksgiving, the day comes all too quickly for me, not realizing that the leaves have disappeared completely and frost has covered the ground. Why haven't I noticed the pumpkin stands, the advertisement for cheap turkeys and Indian costumes? Well, the answer is simple for me-time flies when I watch over Isabella Swan.
It has been five months since the first time I saw her with the blonde man. I now know his name is Jasper Whitlock, her childhood friend from her hometown of Forks, nothing more and nothing less. Never been together sexually, which for me is a huge relief. He's dating Alice Brandon now, who has become one of Bella's few close friends, and I'm glad they're friends. Alice is a nice person, always has been, always will be, but not my type at all.
It's been five months since I first started to watch over Bella and started knowing her. And yet, it isn't enough time for me, I want more.
Strange, never before have I watched someone for so long. A month, maybe two if they were interesting enough, but never five. Never this long.
It worries me and excite me at the same time, because she is different. So maybe it will be different this time?
I hope so.
God, I hope so.
It's Wednesday, the 22nd, and I sit inside the Starbucks shop which is buzzing with business despite the early hour and I came this close to losing my table behind Isabella.
Today though, it's not just only Rosalie sitting with her, but Alice too, both for the moment ignoring Isabella while they are excitedly talking about the Black Friday sales. But I know Isabella doesn't mind being left out from that conversation, because she is less vain than them, content with the plain and un-branded clothes she already has.
"Are you sure you don't want to come with us?" Alice addresses Bella and asks for the fifth time this morning. Even I am getting annoyed by her constant repeating the question. How can a person simply not get the message? Bella's staying, alone, on Thanksgiving, alone, here. Alone, without them. Alone here. She tells her again, respectfully declining the offer of coming with Alice to New York for the holidays. For the fifth time, she explains how she has fallen behind on three books she has to finish reading during the weekend, and for the fifth time she explains to them both how she doesn't need the distraction but how she will make it up to them another time.
"I'll let you give me a make-over when you get back, Alice. Just please, stop asking!" she pleads and I can practically feel the effect her brown doe-eyes has on her friends. I've seen those eyes many times over the months, staring out over the green quad from underneath a pine tree, sitting on the same bench that I myself sat on, the first time I saw her. Everyday, she walks over there at exactly noon from her History of English Literature class. Alice is usually waiting for her with a small bag of homemade sandwiches with ham, cheese, lettuce and tomatoes, and a bottle of water. Many times have I watched as Alice becomes animated, seemingly talking at the speed of sound and waving her hands in the air while Isabella stares in shock before shaking her head with closed eyes and opening them with that exact expression of pleading eyes, mentally begging Alice to slow down. It never fails to interest me.
I wonder, if Bella truly looks at me, sees me and doesn't turn away, will I stop?
Only one way to find out.
Alice huffs but respects her friend's wishes, but not without a final try. "What about your parents, Bella. What excuse did you give them?"
I could strangle Alice.
"There is no excuse, Alice," Bella spits, agitated, shaking her head from side to side, her pony-tail hitting me even more. "It's just how it is. I need to get this done. If not, well, then I'll fail the class and lose my scholarship. Is that what you want, Alice? Do you want me to risk everything for a mindless day in a mall, doing something I couldn't care less about?"
That stings, I can tell, because Alice starts to hiccup, small sobs escaping her mouth and I know that Isabella is already regretting her choice of words and tone. Because she is a gentle soul, thinking about other people before herself, and if Alice hadn't pushed her, then we wouldn't have seen the fire in her. But I am a little grateful she did, because I now know there is more to Bella Swan than just a book-loving shy girl from Washington.
"I'm sorry," she whispers and I can hear Alice's quiet "it's okay" and I know that it won't break their friendship, the bond they have created over the past months. Because no one can ever stay mad at sweet Isabella Swan. It just isn't possible.
She returns from Christmas, in the middle of January, wearing designer clothes that Alice and Rosalie have bought for her. She wears them to be nice, to show she is grateful for the gifts. But I know she isn't comfortable in them, the fitted trench-coat, the dark skinny jeans and the thin red v-neck sweater which shows off too much, which neither of us are happy with. Men are looking at her-we both see it and we both hate it- one-track minds watching her with thoughts, not appropriate when it comes to my Isabella. It's unwanted attention and it is lucky they all survive.
But beside the slight wardrobe change, Bella is happier, coming back to Dartmouth from visiting Forks and her parents. I had followed her there, out of sight, watched her on Christmas morning, opening presents with her parents in her flannel night-attire with pink bunnies on it. It's not the one she uses at college, where she only wears a navy-blue Mariners t-shirt, but I can see it in her eyes that it's special to her, memories in the garment, memories of younger days without stress of failing and being kicked out school.
Her smile makes me smile. The muscles in my face feel strange from the action and that only makes me smile wider. She does this to me, because she is special and I know that she is the one.
Just one more week, I tell myself, just one more week and I'll do it. But the week prolongs, and January comes to an end, but Isabella's life does not. It's strange, the warmth inside my chest that overpowers me whenever I think of her, and I wonder what it is.
My heart beats more than before, with more inspiration that before. It's alive.
And I know now that the girls before her were merely practice toys for me, preparing me for the day she would walk into my life and turn it up-side down.
Bella is the one, but I keep waiting.
Isabella sits through hours and hours of so-called torture. Her words, not mine. But, if I were in her shoes, I guess I would say the same thing.
Only I, I would never allow this to happen.
Never. In. My. Fucking. Life.
This was a disaster waiting to happen, both Isabella and I know it, but I still can't help the feeling of possessiveness and jealously to rage within my body. Because this is so wrong, it brings me to my knees trembling, almost tearing out my hair with my hands, knuckles white and scraped after punching the wall 'til I bleed.
I hate Rosalie. I hate Alice
Because today, they have convinced my Isabella to go out on date.
Hating what they are making her do, I still lean back with a sigh as I watch her walk out from her dorm dressed in a baby-blue top with spaghetti-straps, the hem of the shirt ending just below the waistband of her jeans. Her hair is curled and shiny, bouncing off her shoulders. Her lips are glistening in the heated sun. She looks marvelous, but I hate it, because she isn't dressed like that for me. She is dressed like that for Mike Newton.
Michael Eugene Newton, a perfect example of a brain-damaged male sucked into the sorority life of the Greek house of Alpha Omega, a bunch of drunken baboons who sole purpose in life will be to end up as janitors and dead-beats in life's dark underworld of deaths and suicide. He is on the verge of getting kicked out-I checked-but based on the six-figured monthly income of Michael Newton Senior and the new addition to the west wing; I doubt he will.
But I guess that is why Rosalie picked him, because of his financial status and rumors of him taking over his father's business within banking. But again, I doubt he will. He has a brain at the size of a pea, the boyish looks of a chubby child send to fat-camp for his twelfth birthday, the perception of a monkey with a banana. He is a complete idiot, and yet my stomach is twisting with pain whenever I think about his hands on my Isabella.
I will cut his hands off if he tries.
I will crush his testicles if he even dares to look at her the wrong way.
I will watch him scream as I peel the flesh off his face if he even dares to do anything she doesn't want to.
Because my Isabella deserves more than the poster child for the importance of using birth-control.
He is scum, and she is a princess, and I'll be damned if I am not the dark knight claiming her and killing anyone who even thinks about having her for themselves.
I can't believe it.
I'm seeing it, but I can't make myself believe it.
Is he that stupid?
This is a twenty year old man, probably one of the richest students around, and he takes her to the park, makes her buy her own ice-cream and laughs when she falls to the ground after stumbling over her own two feet. He doesn't even lend her a hand, help her get up or anything, only chuckles as she stands up and dust herself off. I don't even think he recognizes that the emotions in her eyes are anger, fury and annoyance. He's totally clueless, and I don't know whether to laugh at him or make good on my previous promises.
Because both are so, so tempting.
I follow them back, as the sky darkens in sync with Isabella's mood, careful to stay out of sight behind trees, and ghost them back to the dorm. She fumbles with her keys, knowing that Rosalie is out with Emmett for the day, but she doesn't do it to prolong the date or to send a hint for him to kiss her, she does it because she is fuming and her annoyance is affecting her hand-eye co-ordination. But, Michael Newton П, with is one-tracked filthy mind sees it as something it's not and he takes her wrist-almost causing me to strangle him-and leans in towards her lips.
I knew my Isabella had fire in her, and the evidence is clear on Newton's shocked face. The red handprint already forming on his cheek and I nearly piss myself trying to hold back my laugh as she knees him in his family jewels and curses at him.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" she shrieks and raises her arms in question. "Did you really get the impression that I was having a good time? That I like you? God-damnit, get offa me!"
And then she finally gets her key in and slams the door shut. Other students have peaked their head through their doors at this point, and are laughing at Newton who is still holding on to his private parts and gasping for air.
Go Swan! the small immature, still boyish part of me squeals inside my head, practically bouncing up and down. I can't hide the grin on my face when I get up and walk past him, receiving a grimace and a groan in response as he wobbles to his feet and half limps half runs down the hall with snickers following him. I know that Michael Eugene Newton П will never again dare venture near my Isabella again. But, if he does, I know exactly how to handle that. Kick his testicles back up into his crotch.
The next day in the coffee-shop, Isabella makes Rosalie apologize and promise to never again set her up on a date, to let her chose her own dates from then on. They seal it with their pinkies. So Isabella Swan doesn't go on a date for the remainder of the school-year, which of course lowers my hit-list and leaves me alone to admire her from afar.
She's back in Forks, and that also means I am too. She hasn't been here since Christmas, telling her parents it costs too much and she has too much going on. It's mostly true, but I know that one can make it work if one just wants too. But something in her keeps her from wanting it, something I can't decipher yet.
But I will, because I need to know her. Everything about her. I need it.
And the craving is growing stronger every day, my heart beating faster and faster, feeling empty because it has been so long.
It's been a year since the last time, the last time I was disappointed by the dull color of a young girl's tainted blood, the last time I felt the anticipation and adrenaline shoot through me with every slice of my knife.
The cuts, they are a reminder of my life, of why I do what I do.
I fiddle with my pocket knife, lying on my back in the sand listening to children laughing, water splashing and the wind whooshing. It's peaceful, and I smile knowing that not far from me sits the most beautiful woman alive, clad in a two-piece green bikini and matching boy-shorts covering just to her upper thigh.
I on the other hand, am still wearing a t-shirt and jeans, because there is no reason to create hysteria and screams on a peaceful place like this. And besides, the weather here in Forks-even during summer-doesn't provide much heat and sun. Though today is warm and cloud-free, I still can't undress.
Not for anyone but her.
Only she will know about me.
And my father. Lying in the grave he dug himself for sixteen years, covered with dirt and gravel from the actions he made. He dug the grave, I just pushed him in it and closed it. Simple as that. Or not, but I don't like thinking about it, because the haunting image of my mother's green eyes is too much to bear.
"Bella!" one of the Native American boys calls out to Isabella who is now splashing around in the water with a girl with coal black hair. She doesn't acknowledge him at first, and continues to laugh with her friend, who she refers to as Emily, and her laugh is carefree and beautiful, like church bells or a soft lullaby. Enchanting.
But the native boy-–Jacob Black, I hear her say his name-ruins it as he runs into the water himself and ducks her under the water. But, unlike with Michael Newton, I don't flinch or try to move from my spot in the sand, I just watch as she submerges and her hair cascades down her back and she rubs the salty Pacific water from her face. And she keeps smiling, warm and genuine, to Jacob who is grinning from ear to ear just as warm.
And yet jealousy never strikes me. Possessiveness, yes, of course, that is always there, but not jealousy. It was strange really, but in my heart I look at them and I see nothing but friendship. A bond strong and everlasting, a bond not burdened with the drama of sexual love and desire.
They are friends, and I respect that.
Well, to be honest, when I first saw him in the middle of June, I can't deny that my blood boiled at the sight of him, watching him hug her and tickle her and all the things I was still unable to do. For two weeks, my brain came up with plan after plan on how to slowly torture him until he begged me to take his life. But I wouldn't. I would keep going, until the torture would finally kill him. Burn his skin; cut him just deep enough to draw blood but not enough to cause him to die from blood-loss; slice him up; electrocute him.
But, after two weeks, Isabella went to the Indian reservation La Push, to this exact beach, for a barbeque hosted by none other than Jacob Black. We were both surprised when she came there and found out that it was not just another regular beach-party with friends, but, in fact, an engagement party for Jacob and his fiancé Leah. I watched from the forest, as they laughed and shared embarrassing stories from their younger days. There were Jacob's friends and Leah's friends, but Isabella had the best stories, the most animated way of telling them with different voices, trying to imitate Jacob's masculine voice and electing teary laughs from everyone.
That was when I stopped my plans of killing him, and instead sat back and smiled, watching my Isabella playing out her role as best friend. One of the best parts for me though, was when Isabella realized she didn't have a gift for them and ended up yelling at him for not telling her about the engagement. Quoting how much "she hates surprises", she hits him square in the chest.
My Isabella is a fire-ball.
The summer continues, and Isabella-and I-stay put in Forks, talks to Rosalie and Alice daily and hangs out with Jacob and his friends a lot. In the second last week of July, Jasper returns from New York where he has been with Alice for a month, and the old jealousy from the first day sparks inside me when they wrap each other in a warm embrace the first time they meet. It's ridiculous to feel that way, but it's the possessiveness and my clear memory that makes me that way.
Jasper's parents have sold their house to travel across the country in an RV, but instead of checking into a motel or renting a place to stay, Isabella convinces him to stay with her in her room. That only ignites my jealousy. He sleeps on the floor, on an old mattress with black sheets, but on the second night, he climbs into Isabella's bed and holds her tight.
I nearly fall from the branch in the tree when I see it and the wheels in my head start to churn out ways to kill him. He holds her tight, but the worst part is that she doesn't turn him down or pushes him away. She just sighs, and drifts off to Never Neverland full of dreams, her head resting on his naked chest and his nose is in her hair.
And then the worst thing happens.
He kisses her.
It may not be a real kiss for them. It's innocent and chaste, but it is still a kiss on her sleeping form and I jump down from the tree, fuming.
And I know what to do.
The next day I watch as Renee-Isabella's mother-holds her tight in the living room, rocking her back and forth while her father Charlie stand there completely at loss of what to do. He scratches the back of his head, stands on his heals before turning and walks out the front door. He gets in his police-cruiser and drives in the direction of the station but without turning on the red and blue lights.
But neither his daughter nor wife notices his lack of presence, as they both weep into each other's necks with muffled words I can't make out. They are grieving the loss of a man, of a person that was as close to a son she ever had, a person who was always there for her. Renee grieves for a boy she loves as much as her daughter, and Isabella grieves for the loss of her oldest and closest friend.
Did I do the right thing? In my mind it is right, because he did something I can never forget nor will ever forgive, but watching my beautiful Swan so devastated makes me question my revengeful actions.
No. I'm sure. It was the right thing to do. If I would have let them go on like that, something would have happened, something I wouldn't be able to live through. Yes, I did the right thing.
He had gone out early for a run, before even Isabella had awoken from her slumber, heading west on a track into the forest. I followed him there, running faster than him but keeping quiet in the shadows of the forest. The sun was rising in the east behind us, creating long shadows at our feet, but Jasper never saw me coming up behind him as he ran lost in his thoughts with an iPod attached to his grey t-shirt. He never saw me until I tripped him and he flipped in the air and landed on his back, shock on his face.
"Man!" he had blurted out, after catching his breath. "What the hell? Watch where you're going!" But before he had opened his mouth another time, before a single sound escaped him, his eyes widening at the sight of my blade.
"What… who… why… where… wha…wha?" he had stuttered. Fear had drained his face white, and he had started to crawl backwards, away from me, away from death. But he never got far, for my skills and blade did a quick number on his throat and chest, fury running through my veins remembering his lips upon my Isabella's head, his smile whenever he saw her. I was driven, and within minutes, there had been no blood left in his body, the red substance staining the forest floor.
I had been right in my actions.
But then why does a tear trickle down my face as I watch her-numb and holding onto herself-leaving her mother in the living room to call her friend, to tell her about the man who had been found midday, dismembered by wild animals and almost un-recognizable? Why is my heart aching with pain watching her be so broken?
Because she is the one.
One week later, she goes through the same motions like the week before; she drives to Port Angeles and picks up Alice, and then Rosalie the day after that. Alice drives when they pick up Rosalie, because Isabella is in no state to drive herself, and I'm grateful that she takes control. I would die if Isabella would get hurt. Physically.
Emotionally, it pains me to see her so broken, but I am justified in my actions. No one can change what is done. Not even me.
But still, on Wednesday the 30th, I grieve with her, standing behind dark trees as the rain pours down from the dark sky, the sky reflecting her emotions. She holds onto Alice who for the first time since arrival. She is crying her eyes out, sobbing loudly into Isabella's chest and does not once try to stay quiet as the minister preaches about life and death, about the sorrow and loss this earth suffers when another son of God is taken away. He talks like God had opened up the sky and reached down to Jasper, picked him up and closed his fingers around him, and then taken him up to heaven where he will live forever until we are joined with him again in the afterlife.
He talks like it was God's will that Jasper died, when in reality is was my will.
They lower the casket and Isabella is the third person to spread dirt on the grave, a single tear running down her cheek as she says goodbye to her lost friend. And I cry with her, because seeing her so hurt pains me so.
I will not kill another of her friends. I promise it there and then, because I fear for her sanity if I take another person close to her. I will not hurt her again.
She has recovered slightly from the loss of Jasper, and I am glad to see her smile again, laugh again, be Isabella again. She is renting an apartment with Rosalie only three blocks from campus, and she has finally started to go out for coffee every morning with her again. Neither have early classes, and they are finally able to enjoy their morning boost instead of rushing to class. It is the same Starbucks, the same coffee, the same girls.
But now, Alice is long gone, and my promise has a crack in it, for though I did not intentionally make Alice go to Paris for an internship and break contact with her old friends, it was me who started the domino effect of it. I murdered Jasper; and without him to tie her to the American soil, having to be reminded of him every day by the pitying looks of her friends, there is nothing stopping her from running away. She runs away from her pain, trying to cover it up with expensive fabrics and fancy lingo for scissors and all that nonsense, and leaves her old friends behind to deal with the pain.
And her absence is hurting Isabella.
But I do not bow from my vow, when make it is made, and I am not a liar. I did not cause this. It's a domino effect I had no control over.
"I miss her, Rose," she whispers and I know she is close to tears, lost in her thoughts. The progress she has made over the last weeks is crumbling down before me.
"I miss Jasper, I miss Alice. And I don't understand any of it. Why couldn't he just have stayed home? Why couldn't he just have gone later, when the wolf wouldn't have been there waiting? Why couldn't he just have stayed with Alice in New York or gone to his parents instead of coming home? Why did he have to die, and then take away another friend with him?" she sobs violently into her hands, and both I and Rosalie are at loss of what to do with the situation.
Neither speaks, but eventually they leave and come back the next day to repeat the crying, but today Rosalie knows what to say.
"It's not his fault, and don't you fucking dare to blame yourself, Isabella Marie Swan! Sometimes life sucks, and yeah, people die, but you can't go around and blame yourself for something you couldn't control. It happened, and yes, it sucks big time, but I can't sit back and watch you waste away. Do you think that is what Jasper would have wanted? For you to lose your own life in the process of grieving over his?"
"No, he wouldn't, because Jasper loved you every day of his life and wanted only the best for you. You know this just as good as me. So please Bella, don't lose yourself because of this. I beg you."
Though her choice of words could have been different, and even though I hate hearing her say that Jasper loved my Isabella, I am happy she did, because over the next months Isabella will slowly turn back to normal, still sorry for losing her childhood friend but continuing to live.
In time, my Isabella gets her life and her fire back.
Fear shoots through me and I panic on the inside, but on the outside, I show no change of emotion. I stay calm and collected for the world to see, but I know in myself that this can change everything, ruining everything.
Emmett McCarthy, with his 6'4" broad frame, towers over me with curiosity in his faded blue eyes. He hasn't seen me since our junior year of high school, but he still stands as a threat to me. Because he knows. He knows who I am and who my father was. Everyone from my old life knows about the "delusional and schizophrenic wife-killer" that was feared by every stay at home housewife in the state of Illinois for five years until he mysteriously disappeared. And they all know I am his son, that I was a suspect in many of the cases. None of them have seen me in eight years, until today.
Today, when I come into the Starbucks store fifteen minutes early and am greeted by none other than Emmett McCarty who explains that he just is picking up "the girls'" coffee after a massive hangover. Because they went to a frat party in the Phi Zigma Phi fraternity house and got hammered, as a reunion gift to themselves after the holidays.
"Edward Masen, what the hell are you doing here?" he asks with genuine curiosity but I can see the underline of worry in his tone and eyes, really wondering who I am behind that name, because of that name.
"Emmett, I'm just passing through for work" I lie and act nonchalant, my skills in the art of deception conquered and mastered years ago. He doesn't question it, but doesn't linger either, making random small talk and running out with his promises of catching up. We both know it's a lie. But I seriously don't care.
What I do care about though-if he puts the pieces together and recognizes the pattern of my way of killing and how they are a twisted tribute to my dad. For though my victims are of a different type of target than my father's, I still kill the same way. I am just more careful. For whereas my father was crazed and hallucinating, re-creating the murder of my mother over and over on every similar woman that we found, leaving their bodies bloodied on the ground for everyone to see, I hide them well and still after three years in this town, they still believe that these woman have either ran away from home or been kidnapped or killed.
I have left no trace. And I get away with. Constantly.
But will Emmett McCarty see the woman missing, and conclude I have followed in my father's footsteps?
I can't have that.
So the next couple of weeks, I follow him, watch what he digs after and if he has made the connection.
Eventually, I realize that he has made the connection. He has more brains than I gave him credit for.
He leaves his apartment at dawn, with Rosalie sleeping inside, but I am anxious and worried, so I go inside and ruffle through his drawers. Several clipped news paper articles is inside a folder, names cataloged after date of disappearing.
Followed by who I presume is the mystery girl…
Women unheard of in the county for the past three years, all gone missing. He is missing a few: Bree, Kim, Emily, Claire... but knowing he has found so many of my prey and pieced them all together scares me to death.
"Who are you?" I hear a voice behind me.
It is Rosalie, surprising me by…well, surprising me…standing in her short white robe and rubbing her eyes. She doesn't understand yet, that her life ended the second she got out of bed, but I allow her to stand there and wake up further until she finally realizes what I am holding in my hand. Because I never go anywhere without one of my knives, because I feel naked without them, because they are crucial to my existence.
"Hey, aren't you…?"
She didn't get to finish the sentence. As I leap off the ground and pounce on to her, we both go crashing to the floor, me on top of her. My knife plunges deeply into her stomach. She gasps for air, her hands grasping onto the fabric covering my shoulders.
"Emmett!" she sobs as her heart beats one final time, and if this were a different situation and if I were a different man, I would find it touching that her final word was the name of her lover, but to me that is just idiocy.
He can't hear her, no one but me will ever know.
I push myself off her and clean the blade on my pants, flipping it over and doing the same on the other side. She doesn't look peaceful, even with her final loving word. Instead, she looks sorrow-filled and broken.
I leave her be, cleaning up whatever small evidence of my existence still resides in the apartment. I spend the rest of the day going through the rest of the documents, ignoring when her cell phone goes off fifteen times during the day. And then when I am done, I wait for my old schoolmate to come home.
When he returns from work fifteen minutes earlier than usual, Emmett is devastated. His knees trembles and he ignores me completely as he crawl over to her cold, dead body, cradling her in his arms. He closes his eyes, like the image will vanish behind the darkness, but I know that behind the closed lids lies the image of his lover's limp body. He kisses her hair over and over, chanting "I'm sorry" again and again until I grow tired and stand to my feet, finally getting his attention.
"You… you… why… she… innocent… nothing... wrong… why… nothing… I… please… don't..." he sobs over the body but remains on the ground, refusing to tower over me again with anger, because this man is broken. His eyes are dead.
"Why?" he asks again and my answer is simple: "You shouldn't have looked into it."
"Please," he begs, but I continue. "You know about my father, you saw how people feared him and avoided him even before he started to kill. You all looked at me and feared me, because I was his son and you thought I was the same."
"And you were right," I continued, after a pause. "You all were. Because who do you think made sure daddy dearest wasn't caught so fast? Who do you think cleaned the bodies of his fingerprints? Who was it that made sure their husbands left and that he always had his knives with him? It was ME! Because I was the smart one. I was the mind behind it. I did it because I hated his wife, my own mother, because she was a bitch that never loved either of us!"
Why am I crying? Is it because of the memories of my abusive mother hitting me in the face, telling me I was a failure, a mistake, a bastard child who would never be capable of feeling love? Is it because I remember back to the day my father found out what his wife was doing to his only son? When he had taken a kitchen knife and stabbed her until she'd lost too much blood to survive? Is it because he then turned to me and said the words I will never forget?
"This is the blood of a woman who never loved you. Look at it; how dirty it looks. Taste it; it tastes like rotten food. Edward, my son-a loving woman will have astonishing red blood in her veins. She will make your heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. That will be the one."
He then kicked my mother's lifeless body with the tip of his shoe.
"This woman is not that woman. Nor is anyone else around her. But will you help me find her, son?"
"Yes, father. I'll help you find love."
And with that, I break my vow for the second time today, ending the life of another of my Isabella's friends. He doesn't fight back though; he is too numb to realize that my blade enters his body and leaves it cold and limp on the floor next to the woman he said he once loved.
But my secret is kept, as I take every shred of evidence that can be used against me, and leave without looking back once. Because in spite the importance of having my sweet Isabella sane and healthy, staying under the radar until the day I am ready to approach her is more important than that.
Because she is the one.
Every day at the exact same time of seven thirty, she hits the snooze-button on her alarm and sleeps for an additional nine minutes before she drags herself out of the bed and goes to the bathroom naked. It's the third most beautiful sight in the world. Inside, she washes her hair with the most enchanting strawberry shampoo she stocked up on two years ago because the brand was being pulled. It will soon run out and I am dread the day it does. A few weeks is all that's left of it, and what will we do then?
She always smells so good. Her entire body smells like strawberries, because it is there in the table next to her bed, in the first drawer, strawberry body lotion.
Then, at exactly eight, she showers and wraps herself in a deep blue robe that falls to just right above her knees-showing off her beautiful, creamy legs-and goes to the kitchen where she boils water and sits on a bar stool by the kitchen island with a cup in her hand and her eyes closed. Still, even after a long rinse in hot water, she's always so sleepy, because every night she tosses and turns and cries from nightmares. I don't really blame her. I am a lot to fear, after all.
When the water is bubbling hot, she pours it into the cup, and always makes herself a bowl of cereal-strawberry banana Berry Burst Cheerios from General Mills to be exact- and pours the milk all the way to the edge so it spills over the edges for the three first spoonfuls. But she is always prepared, having already placed two sheets of paper towels under the bowl so the fluid absorbs into that instead of making a mess on the table. She may have quirky habits, but at least she consistent. And tidy.
Breakfast for her takes fifteen minutes to consume before she goes back to her bedroom and takes the robe off, standing yet again naked in front of her full-length mirror and scrutinizing herself. I hate when she does this, because she does not see herself clearly, the way that I do. She is the most beautiful woman in the world. Truly. Maybe Rosalie had been what most men find sexy, hot and attractive. And her friend Alice an abnormal beauty who draws people in with her personality and strange looks. But Isabella is the one who is the natural beauty, the one people dream about spending the rest of their life with because they know that a beauty like that never changes with age. Isabella will look wonderful even with crow's feet by her eyes, worry-lines in her fore-head and sunken in cheeks, grey hair and a slight hunch-back.
To me, her beauty is only a lucky addition to her otherwise perfect being.
It is the third year of her college education of becoming an English scholar, a teacher, a source of inspiration. And yet she does not realize that she already has inspired so much. Me. My killings. My life.
From the awkward teenager she first was, she has grown into a woman of substance and depth, understanding of life and values. She has grown from the full cheeks with the childlike features, to a leaner more aged face that draws you in with the still brown doe eyes.
And I have waited so long, to know every aspect of her life and mind, to be sure that, in truth, she is the woman I love and that will have the strongest color of red inside her. Though I am not a hundred percent sure about the last thing, my belief in her is too strong to be wasted. Because I did not waste three years of my life on a woman that means nothing to me. I did not spend the remainder of my teenage life and the years after on searching for the one that would make my heart flutter like the wings of a hummingbird. I didn't waste three years.
Because she is the one, and now she will know as well.
It's the thirteenth of September, the day she turns twenty-one and fulfills every age limit available on the continental U.S. And today, she will finally meet me.
I stand in the corner of her room with no light shining from the window, because it is finally night and I have waited since the second she walked out the doors that day for her to return home to me.
The entire time, I prepared myself, shining my knives and cleaning her apartment. I clean myself. I spread daisy petals over her bed because she loves them, because they are simple and yet beautiful in a beautifully normal way. And then I wait for her, I wait for her to meet me.
When the ancient grandfather-clock she found on a flea-market strikes six, the rattling of her keys catches my attention to the door and I hear it shut, the keys being tossed in the table by the door and her jacket being hung on the knob. She shuffles through her apartment, but within minutes she is opening the door, letting the artificial light from the lamps cascade over the room, creating the shadows that land on me.
I look right at her, expecting for her to scream, for her to show fear or shock or any dark feeling at all, but all I get is curiosity. Her eyes are wide, but not for the reason I would have thought.
"You" is all she says and cocks her head to the side. "It's you." A small smile plays on her lips and I freeze completely. Is she insane? Did I really take the rest of her sanity when I killed the last of her friends here? But she seems so calm, not crazy at all, and all I can do is wonder why she does react the way she does. React without reaction.
Can it be… she can't love me, can she?
"I know who you are," she says and I take in a deep breath, preparing for the worst. "You are the man from my first day here, the one from the bench. You sit behind me inside Starbucks every morning. You watch me, wherever I go. You were at Jacob's engagement party too."
And with that, she blows me away. How did she know?
"I'm not stupid, you know," she says irritably, shifting on her feet and crossing her arms on top her ample chest. "I've seen you. Always. Following me. Everywhere."
"You killed Rose, didn't you?" she continues and her eyes are filled with sorrow and loss, but no fear that I still expect from her. A tear runs down her cheek as she continues. "And you killed Emmett. Did you kill Jasper too?"
"And you killed those other women I heard about." A statement not a question.
"Because I was looking for you," I simply say and stare into her confused eyes.
She doesn't understand. Yet. But before she can ask what I mean, I save her the trouble.
"I have been searching for someone that makes me feel alive, someone that makes my heart beat faster. I have been looking everywhere, and then I found you."
"But why me?"
"Because you are the only woman I will ever love."
And then the flood gate opens and she falls to the ground, sobbing and I am completely confused as what to do about it. She isn't reacting the way she is supposed to, the way the others did, the way I expect her to do. She is crying, but not because she knows she will die, but because she finally found her friends' murderer.
She mumbles to herself, words I can't quite make out so I move closer, and still she doesn't flinch away when I crouch down next to her and hold her to my chest. And what I hear fills my soul, my heart, my being.
"Why did I have to fall in love with you? Why does it have to be you? Why can't I stop loving you?"
And then I raise her chin so she can look into my eyes, and I try to find a lie, a charade to comfort her, but her eyes are filled with tears and honesty, the essentials of her person. I continue to stare into her eyes, the minutes ticks by and her tears dry up.
"Please," I breathe. And I kiss her, passionate and hard, taking all her life from her. All her love. All of it for me. Everything.
I pick her up in my arms, laying her down on her bed and continuing to kiss her body, moving down from her lips and to the hollow of her throat, eliciting the sweetest sound from her, the type that make you shiver with joy. My hands travel down her sides, pushing her clothes off her until has nothing left to hide from me. Because I know her now. I kiss her stomach, then pull away to blow on it. She shivers and move her own hands to my shirt, silently telling me to undress as well.
And how can I deny my Isabella such things?
"Who are you?" she whispers in my ear and sighs, her hands mimicking mine, traveling down my own sides, tickling the skin there. "Who are you?" she says again and I whimper as her hands goes to my hair, fisting around it.
"I'm Edward, and I love you Isabella."
"Why do you call me Isabella?"
"Because a beautiful girl like you deserves to be called by the most beautiful name there is. Mia Bella, mi amore," I whisper back softly and reach for her nightstand, taking the red pocket knife in my grasp but I don't open it yet. I need to hear her say it again.
And she doesn't disappoint.
"I love you too. Please, don't make me suffer like the rest."
And her eyes are filled with nothing but love and understanding, a soft plea in her brown depths, and I sit up, straddling her stomach, and open the knife.
"This was my father's," I say and twirl it between my fingers. "He gave it to me before I killed him. He taught me everything I know, and probably more. I loved him, you know. I only killed him because he asked me to…"
She stops me with her hand on my cheek, her eyes of compassion. "It's okay. It's okay, just, please... make it quick."
And I force it right beneath her collar bone, and press it down until the skin splits. I wait, as she whimpers in pain but keeps still. Then I let the blade follow down, between her breasts and to her navel, ending it there and I watch as the blood trickles down her body and to the sheets, leaning over to her ear, kissing her lobe and whisper, "You will never be with anyone else, my beautiful swan. I love you"
A tear trickles down her face-and holding onto me as I slice through her skin over and over until her body is covered with the stain, she tell me she loves me too. Her blood, it is so vibrant, a clean and deep color of red. I lick some off the side of her mouth as she coughs.
Strawberries. Red red strawberries.
"I – I – lo…love – y…you..." she stutters and coughs again, her eyes on mine with a smile and filled with the truth of her words. Her face turns pale white, her eyes never closing as her chest rise a final time.
I look down on my love, feeling my chest rise and fall hard with each breath, my heart truly beating like the wings of a hummingbird and I have never felt more alive, more loved. Warm.
But then I realize, still sitting on top of her, that I have just removed my love, the single thing I held on to in life. Because how could I ever go out again and watch another woman when I know in myself that this is the only woman I will ever want again? Reality crushes down on me fast and hard and I stare down on the blade in my hand, then to her, her form so still and peaceful, her eyes still open and wet with the promise of love. She continues to look into my soul.
And it breaks my newfound heart, and I cry, taking the blade to my chest and deepen it into my flesh until it can't go any further. My sobs turn frantic as the unfamiliar pain shoots through me and my blood mixes with hers on the crisp white sheets. I do it again, and again, until the blade slips from my hand in fatigue and I collapse on top of my love, screaming in pain and loss into the side of her hair, like my pleas will bring her back from heaven where she lives among angels. I will not be joining her there.
I cry, I weep. The hope of long-promised love is broken in half as my life seeps away from the gashes in my chest, gasping for my last shred of air and burying my head in the crook of her neck, my lips puckering the slightest and touching her skin as my body gives in.
For years, I have searched for love. And here, in this bed and with this woman, I find it at last. But it does me no good. I am gone.
I have done slight change: I've put all three parts together in one part. I apologize if it feels too much to read at once, but it's the decision I've made despite advices that says otherwise. Apart from that, I hope you enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it…though that process was actually a little frightening to me. I still can't believe I made this, I should be in a straight-jacket!
If you liked it, or if you hated it, or if it didn't interest you at all, I hope you will still leave a small note to let me know what you thought. It would mean the world to me. And if you don't…well, I could always stick Stalkward on you ; )
Oh, and if you're done here, you could always go and check out my longer story The Sound of Silence, another E/B-fic in AH-NC17/MA. Not as deranged as this, but it still has its darker parts mixed with teenage-anxiety. And Misunderstood, a J/B-fic, will be out soon!
Love you all,